


Between the Shadow and the Soul

by arianakristine



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Enchanted Forest, F/M, Forbidden Love, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2018-09-13 04:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9106159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arianakristine/pseuds/arianakristine
Summary: In the Enchanted Forest, a princess wakes to snow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Little vignette for the Enchanted Forest AU picspam. Prompted from Tumblr.

* * *

 

                She can smell it, the moment she wakes. There is a chill in the air, a deep bone-cold that is different than how it’s been all season long. She knows what it must mean.

                There’s snow.

                She peels back the covers. It is early enough yet that the servants haven’t come to wake her, so it is empty in her rooms. She reaches for the canopy and pulls it aside, slipping into the waiting slippers by her bed. She crosses to the chair at her vanity, pulling her dressing robe over herself to cast away some of the chill. She pads to the window box and perches on the seat. With a low exhale, she pulls apart the curtains on her window. Indeed, there is a thick blanket of white covering the terrain, as far as her eyes can see. A slow smile reaches her lips. She watches the tree line, the deep contrast of dark pine and glistening snow, and her heart flutters.

                “Your Highness?”

                She turns, feeling her loose hair drift across her back. “I’m awake.”

                Her chambermaid drops into a quick curtsey. “Highness, it is found that there is too much snow for your lessons today.”

                Her smile grows and she turns back to the window. “I know.”

                “Might you prefer to stay abed? I can send for breakfast when you are ready,” Constance offers.

                She shakes her head. “No, thank you,” she replies curtly. She rises, her whole body humming at the prospect. “I will want to enjoy the fresh powder.”

                “Their majesties won’t be able to join you, Your Highness,” the girl says, her head bowed.

                Emma bites her lip and shies away from her gaze. “Oh, I did assume they would be busy with the first snowfall. I can take myself.”

                “I will send for a guard to accompany you once you are ready.”

                She turns, trying to calm the anxious racing of her heart so her meaning is not understood. “I believe the knight from the woods would be best, wouldn’t you?”

                Constance only bows in response, and skitters away to prepare for her duties. Emma practically vibrates in excitement, ready for a day alone with him.

*

                He meets her in the Great Hall. He isn’t decked in his armor as it isn’t suited to today. Small weaponry will accompany him, but not the clanking metal that will impede his light steps. He is resplendent in the wools and silks he has been provided to wear, though she can tell he is uncomfortable in the finery. He bows deeply when he sees her, though his eyes sear into hers even as his body dips.

                She swallows, already feeling warm.

                “Your Highness wishes to see the snow?” he asks, his voice soft and lilting. He so rarely speaks inside the castle that to hear it echo off the stone walls sends a thrill through her.

                She nods and adjusts the basket in her arms. “I wish to collect some pine and other fragrant things. My rooms have been … stifling as of late,” she asserts.

                He barely hides his smile as his head ducks, and she knows he has been feeling the same. The rains started months ago, making forest trips near impossible for her. He clears his throat and nods to the door. “I will be happy to escort you.”

                She tucks further into her fur-lined cape as not to reach for him, and raises her chin as she passes. He trails only a step or two behind, oh-so-appropriate under the watchful eyes of the staff.

                “Princess!”

                She freezes at the gate, worried now that she is so close to escape. They both turn, seeing Granny Lucas hobbling toward them. Her stomach knots, but she offers a bright smile to cover it. “Granny,” she greets as sweetly as she is able.

                The octogenarian peers curiously at her companion before holding out a newly crocheted hat. “This snow is much colder than last year’s. Take this, dear girl.”

                She pulls on the hat over her delicate braid, and looks behind to see he is smiling at her. She blushes slightly and turns back. “Thank you, Granny.”

                She waves away the thanks, and then reaches forward to tug on his coat. “You keep her out of trouble, Huntsman.” There is something strange in her tone, even though she moves quickly away from them both.

                Emma looks up at him once more, finding that he seems just as confused, watching her fading form. After a moment, he places a hand on the small of her back; it is just shy of appropriate. “Come.”

*

                Her body creeps with impatience as they trail through the powder, boots crunching along the crystals. His coat swings as he glances back at her, but he never pauses.

                It is only once they have made their way deep into the forest that he stops. She recognizes his old camp, the traces of a fire pit and furs strung up to create a shelter. He turns to her seemingly all at once, his cheeks pink from cold and his eyes dark with emotion. “ _Emma_.”

                She grins to hear her name from his mouth after so long. She can’t help herself from throwing her arms around his neck, and he catches her easily. Desperately, she firmly presses her lips to his. He kisses her back, arms winding around her waist to press her tight against his chest, consuming her in a way that steals her breath and lightens her soul.

                He is smiling when they part, plucking a few flakes of snow from her braid. “I never thought I’d ever be this excited to see snow,” he remarks.

                She hums, and leans on tiptoes to kiss him again, eager to taste him after so long. It rushes through her blood, the need she has for him, and as she drifts back she buries her face into his neck. “Graham,” she whispers into his skin, the name she’d chosen for him just a year ago. _Home_. “I’ve missed you terribly.”

                They used to speak, all the time. She had coaxed stories from him like no one else in the kingdom could, learning all she could about him and his ideas. But they have been too cautious now that their relationship has grown, too worried that a mere glance will give away the ruse. They still talk, but she misses the way he could blend words into a natural narrative for only her.

                And she has missed his touch so very, _very_ much.

                His fingers tighten into her hips, burning through the fabric of her dress. “I know,” he says simply, then nudges his forehead into hers. He is much more patient than she, but she can still feel the longing with every breath he draws from her lips.

                She sighs contentedly before the feverish heat itches its way through her fingers. She pulls apart the toggles at the top of his jacket. “You’ll keep me warm?” she asks huskily.

                “Always, my princess.”

*

                She wakes some time later, the sun still high in the sky. She stretches languidly and smooths the front of her underdress. Her body is deliciously sore, and the bed made of furs is soft and enveloping but also empty. She smells wood burning, and parts the hides that cover the shelter to find her huntsman stoking a fire. Even though it is chilly as she emerges with bare arms, she crosses to his side and leans into him. “You don’t want to rest?”

                He pulls her into his lap with his free hand, thumb stroking her forearm. He watches her in that way he always does, such that he is almost studying her every line and curve. Finally, he shakes his head. “It is still the forest, Princess. There are dangers to protect you from.”

                She rolls her eyes. “I would feel much safer if my knight was with me. Back in bed.”

                He grins at that, and leans in to scrape his teeth gently against her soft neck: not near enough to make a mark that would give away their endeavors but enough to send shivers to her core. “I will join you as much as you wish, Emma. But I was also told to keep my princess from freezing.”

                She leans into him and he covers them both in his coat, shielding them from the weather and ash from the smoke. “You’ve found us some food,” she notes, seeing the sticks already prepped with meats.

                He nods into the crook of her neck, and his beard scratches enticingly against her. “Protecting you does include feeding you, does it not?” he asks slyly.

                “You had better.” She doesn’t wish for it, but her worries surface from his words as he holds her close. “You will let me protect you when it is time, won’t you?”

                He presses a kiss into her curls, just above the crown that still weighed on her head. He doesn’t have to ask what she means. “There will be nothing to do,” he breathes. “You are the heir, Emma. This is treason.”

                She shuts her eyes tight, feeling the sting of tears at the back of her throat before she pushes them down. “They are not the Usurper,” she reminds. “They love me, and when they realize how I love you—“

                “I am only just a knight these past two years, and decades older than you,” he says darkly. “I will be punished regardless.”

                She shudders. His tone is exact, and she knows she’s pushed too hard with the reminder of his past captor. She presses her hands to his heart, the one she only was able to restore to him a year and a half ago.

                “Let’s not talk of these things,” he whispers, and there is something in it that betrays how much he aches at the thought of their separation. He brushes his hand through her hair, and she notices that there are icicles on his lashes. He presses a slow, searing kiss to her lips, and suddenly her worries no longer matter for the moment. “I will take you back to bed, my love.”

*

                This time, he is the one that sleeps.

                Her hair is loose and tangled, underdress strewn somewhere far-flung, and she is flushed and marked in areas that will be easy to hide. She stays awake, her hands pulling absently through his curls as he breathes heavily across her naked skin. His arms are wrapped possessively around her, and his brow is furrowed even in dreams.

                It floors her, how much he trusts her. She has always been a cautious person, so unlike her mother. He has reason to be so much more so, and it colors his every interaction. With others, she could see the disdain and fear trailing across his nerves. And to see him place his whole life in her hands makes her shake from the proof that he feels the same way about her that she does for him.

                She knows he has suffered more than she knows, that he is far more attuned to what could go wrong than she. She knows he feels he has much to atone for, that her parents disagree verbally but quietly agree. She knows he is technically the age of her parents, though sometimes she forgets. Perhaps those facts _will_ stir alarm in the King and Queen.

                She wishes their lives weren’t so separate. She feels deep inside her that they fit, her soul practically singing in awareness around him. But their lives seem to argue against that feeling, against how much she truly loves him.

                It all seems so _doomed_.

                 She knows she will try, no matter what he says. She will dig her heels in and _demand_ that her parents understand. But the fear is a cold fist, and she can’t be the first to tell them.

                In the meantime, she will enjoy their time, his breathing, the sound of snow falling.

*

                She still feels his fingers in her hair, twisting the braid back into place and adjusting her tiara, as she passes the gates just as dusk is falling. It was the last they touched, and she misses him already even though he is still with her.

                Her breath is fog, blowing away snowflakes from her path.

                He is behind her, the warmth of his aura the one thing keeping her sane as her throat closes up at the sight of the castle. Her eyes sting, but she pulls her full basket close and steels her spine.

                The skies seem to stop for the moment, air completely still as the clang of the metal sounds behind them.

                They pause at the doors, and she can feel his hesitance, his sorrow at the juncture between their world and reality. She turns her head, just slightly, and whispers a promise. “Next week.”

                He doesn’t answer, but she can see the way his eyes light before he ducks his head.

                The cover of cloud and cold and snow were things she never knew she could anticipate so much.

*

               


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set a year and a half before the last chapter.

* * *

 

                He has been called into the Grand Drawing Room of the palace early in the evening, just as he is returning from the forest. He isn’t told the reason he has been summoned, nor who has done so. He doesn’t question the order, but instead sheds his coat in his room and heads for the second story.

                Part of him wonders if he’d feel more nervous if he had his heart. He isn’t often called to this part of the castle, and never before to these rooms. The memory of the place is a dull throb in the base of his spine, a feeling that could have been fear. It is still more than he’s felt in decades, so he knows the princess is nearby.

                This is the place he lost his heart.

                He has been in the palace again for only six months. It had taken years to be ready to see it again. He knows he has much to atone for inside these walls, but the courage only solidified in the last year. Snow and her King had welcomed his presence, immediately giving him a title in which to better address his past. He still doesn’t really know what to do with the Knighthood, but it is still infinitely better than the last position he’d had in this place.

                Still, even with more light and softness, the room seems to echo in the call of the past. If he closes his eyes, he could see the rage on the Usurper’s face.

                His eyes remain resolutely open.

                The Princess is in plain view on the balcony, a calming balm to his feelings. He thinks about what a strange mirror it is to see her in the place Regina once stood. She is in soft pastels instead of black, gold and light where there had only ever been dark. The space where his heart should be aches at the sight of her, a strange pull that makes him both confused and aware. He has a name to place on the feeling, but one he doesn’t dare admit to.

                Her blonde hair is plaited intricately around the wreath tiara, soft tendrils framing her lovely face. Her lips are a crimson that never looked as harsh as the color had looked on the Usurper, so much more innocent are they. Her sea-colored eyes are downcast, and she appears deep in thought.

                “Your Highness,” he greets, bending into an informal bow. His eyes don’t ever leave her face, so he sees that he has startled her.

                 She turns to him and hesitates. A box is clutched firmly between her hands, fingers almost white as they catch around it. She swallows and when her eyes meet his, they are sparkling with a mix of worry and excitement. “Huntsman. I am glad to see you.”

                He inclines his head slightly, not reminding her that he had been ordered to this area. He rather doubts that she had made it an order rather than a request, but the other guards are not inclined to grant him any niceties as she would.

                She looks so nervous, so unlike the confident woman he knows. She is practically vibrating as she steps toward him. Suddenly she stops and falls to her knees, the box an offering in front of her. “I’ve found this,” she says softly, urging it toward him.

                He looks down at the box, at the princess kneeling before him. He steps back instinctively, his brow furrowed, and he doesn’t dare reach for it. “What—“

                She glances up, her smile wavering slightly, uncertainty in her every expression. Finally, she reaches around the box and unclicks the latch, and with a creak the container opens.

                Instantly, it is as if his lungs do not know how to function.

                It isn’t possible. It is lost. It is _gone_.

                She presses her lips together and finally rises slowly. “It is your heart,” she confirms.

                “But—“ he stammers, and then swallows thickly. He’s not sure if the sudden rush of emotion is from the heart mere feet away, or from the princess. He shakes his head. “How do you even know that it’s—“

                Her eyes are wide on his. She shakes her head ever so slightly. “I _know_ it’s yours,” she whispers with such conviction that he trembles. She closes the lid and places it to the side, and then grasps his hand between hers. “I always know when it’s you.”

                He is shaking now, the touch of her warm skin igniting something inside him. He looks up at her, still unsure. “Where?”

                She gives a half-smile, curling her fingers into his as she speaks, “she hid it well. But once you let me in, it wasn’t hard to find.”

                He ducks his head, shying away from her words. They had been … friends, for lack of a better word, since he came to the palace. They had found a connection somehow, seeking each other out easily. Last week, they had had another of their long talks by the fireside. At one point, she had leaned against his shoulder and relaxed into him. He realized in that moment how much he trusted her, the last of his uncertainty melting away with a brush of lips against his cheek. He’s dropped every last inch of his steel around her, and the fact that she both recognizes but doesn’t push is what’s making him lean into her now. “What made you look?” he asks, his voice husky.

                Her eyes bounce over his face, and her hands are firm in his. “After last week … I can feel you. I can feel the missing piece, and I just … I just knew where to look.”

                He exhales harshly, forehead touching hers for a split moment before he yanks back and turns away from her. He grips the back of the couch, the soft leather nearly splitting in his grip. “You didn’t—“

                “Can you help me put it back?”

                Her voice is so hopeful, so innocent. He doesn’t know how to tell her how conflicted he feels. He has lived without a heart for longer than she’s been _alive_. It seems too easy, like a trick, to have it beating on the top of the credenza. Even if it’s real … he’s not sure he’s ready.

                Suddenly, there is a hand on his shoulder, and he tenses immediately. When he looks, she is watching. What’s scary, terrifying, is that _understanding_ is painted on every curve. “I think it’s safest with you.”

                “I think it’s safest with _you_ ,” he counters immediately, before he even realizes what he’s saying.

                She blushes prettily, and then she shakes her head. “Easier, maybe. But I want … you should be whole.”

                _Whole_. He’s not sure he deserves to be that. But he swallows, and finally reaches for her hand again. If there’s anyone he trusts …. “Okay.”

                She brightens. “Okay?” she confirms.

                He nods, and flips the lid on the chest. He takes his heart in his hands, the delicate thing pulsating with light. Gingerly, he takes her hand and watches as it lays in her palms. He’s not unaware of the symbolic gesture, but he doesn’t utter a word. All he does is set his eyes on hers and nod.

                She worries her bottom lip, then rests a hand on his shoulder, bracing herself. She looks apologetic. “This will hurt,” she warns.

                He nods, breathing deeply. “I remember.” His eyes squeeze shut to prepare.

                The pain is bright, splitting through him as she becomes wrist deep inside his chest. Despite his resolve, he cries out, falling against the wall after he feels it slide into place, and her hand flattens along his pectoral.

                “Did I do it right? Did I hurt you? Did I mess it up?”

                He teeters on his feet, eyes closed as he settles on the fact that his heart is beating within him. He feels dizzy, sweaty, a little nauseated. But what’s more is simply that he _feels_. It’s not just the hollow echoes of feeling that he’s had, not the sudden swells of light he knows from her. Instead, it is this painful, _consuming_ thing that gives him an instant migraine. He can’t muster the ability to reassure her.

                After a long moment, there are hands on his face, softly brushing across his cheeks. He realizes after a moment that he is crying, tears streaming down his face uninhibitedly. He blinks, finding her in his space, nose nearly touching his. “Huntsman, are you okay?”

                He inhales shakily. This was too close to how it began all those years ago, in the room bricked over beside them. He had lost his heart, and then the woman responsible had yanked his face to hers, forcing a biting kiss before condemning him to slavery.

                But the princess isn’t moving closer, her breath across his lips but no closer. She is there offering him freedom. She is such the opposite, and in such a bright light that she shines over the past. Her eyes are set on his, watching his reaction aptly.

                And suddenly everything is easy. He doesn’t have to think about the rush of emotion, the placement of his heart. He doesn’t have to make comparisons, not when she outshines it. He doesn’t have to remember the past when his present is right in front of him.

                There is just Emma, just his princess.

                He grasps her jaw and tilts her head up so their lips are touching for the first time. She sighs and he can actually feel her relief. Gingerly, he breaks away, watching for her reaction. She has a small smile on her face, and he realizes that he’s been waiting for this for months. He joins her again, harder this time. Being in control feels good in a way he can’t explain; he is his own man, now more than he’s ever felt before. He urges her lips apart, and she parts them easily. Her arms wind behind his neck, pulling him down to deepen the kiss.

                He pulls back a fraction. “Thank you,” he breathes.

                She nudges her nose to his, smiling brightly. “I love you,” she answers, then kisses him again.

                He doesn’t answer, not in words. Despite knowing all that will threaten to separate them later, for now he focuses on showing her exactly how he feels.

               

               


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: I have a question, in the enchanted forest, Graham/Huntsman having archery skill and never missing. Does he ever teach Emma archery or does she pick that up from her mother?
> 
> I’m working backwards in the timeline. This is maybe a couple months after they’ve met. Anon, it looks like you’re getting a new graphic each time but because of this, the princess is getting instruction on a newer weapon.

  
  


* * *

 

                Emma fumbles with loading the pistol, huffing impatiently as the powder spills onto her hands. She takes a deep breath and begins again, trying to force the parts together. After a long moment of messing with it, she hurls it away in frustration with a hoarse growl. It lands heavily in the dirt at the edge of the enclave with a muted clatter, and she revels in the sound.

                “You are quite violent, Your Highness.”

                She turns, the familiar tones of his voice twisted into playfulness. She tries to glare and isn’t fully successful. She blushes at the sight of him, decked in his leathers. Sometimes she forgets how handsome he is; he likes very much to hide himself away beneath layers of cloth. Now, he is dressed for training, sleek and powerful. She shies away from his eyes in order to hide her reaction to merely his presence. “It deserved it.”

                “Of that, I am sure,” he replies wryly, and bends over to grab the gun. He looks it over carefully, hands gentle as he turns it side to side. “You managed not to break it, however.”

                “Great,” she mutters.

                His eyebrow rise in amusement. “Next time, Princess, I’m sure you’ll be much more successful in annihilating it.”

                She rolls her eyes at him, trying not to laugh at the lame joke. “Is that why you’re here? To make fun of me?” she grouses.

                He shakes his head. “You didn’t inform Their Majesties of your whereabouts,” he admonishes lightly.

                She crosses her arms in front of her chest. She knew it would only be a matter of time before her parents sent out the majority of the castle to look for her. Though there hasn’t been a threat to the kingdom in years, they will never be comfortable with letting her off on her own.

                For pity’s sake, it is her own _backyard_ , and her mother was a _bandit_ at her age. And it isn’t like she can’t take care of herself … tricky pistol notwithstanding.

                She pouts slightly, trying not to look as defeated as she feels. “I was trying to practice a little more before I make a fool out of myself next week.” She is to be tested on her skills, or the lack thereof. She just hasn’t gotten a handle of the weapon yet.

                “The pistol is new to you,” he muses, rubbing his hand across the stubble on his jaw. “You are competent with the bow?”

                She nods. “Archery is fine. I’m perhaps not as skilled as father, but I’ve good form. My tutors are pleased, at least,” she says. She is much more competent with the sword, but as an archer she can hold her own.

                He smiles, and she has to stop her breath from catching. It is such a genuine look, his whole face softened by it. “That might be the issue. Archery is a much different practice, aside from the basics.”

                “I know _that_ ,” she grumbles and looks away, feeling her cheeks heat in embarrassment. She doesn’t want to look foolish in front of him, either.

                “I can help, if you wish?”

                “You know how to use one?” she asks grouchily. He is known for his archery, of course, though that was decades ago. She didn’t think he knew much about the newer weaponry.

                His smile turns a little grim. “Yes. I needed to learn as the technology changes. I am more comfortable with the other, of course, but I still never miss.”

                She bites her lip, and then turns to look at him. Her hair is coming loose from its updo, soft tendrils making the otherwise innocent glance a little coyer. There is nothing arrogant in his words, and instead it is the smooth confidence in his skill that has her intrigued. Finally, she nods. “Sure.”

                He quickly loads her gun, his movements swift and precise. He hands it out once he is finished and she can feel the heat from his skin as it is passed. “Let me see your form.”

                She turns to the target and readies her stance. She squints like she would with a bow in her hands, and then fires. It misses completely, the ball grazing the post instead. She squares her shoulders and hisses at it.

                “Okay,” he says, his voice is soothing. He is in her space, just over her shoulder, but not close enough to touch. He smells like rain and pine but also something warmer, and she tries not to distract herself in naming it. He takes the handle just above her grip and raises it with her. “You’re aiming straight, but not allowing for the kick. It’s explosive, not the smoothness of the arrow.”

                She nods and tries to settle into a better position with the empty gun. To her disappointment, he moves away as well.

                “Wait.” She turns with wide eyes. He reaches his hand out, and she follows the wordless instruction to give him the gun. Instead of reloading it like she anticipates, he replaces it with his own. She weighs it in her hand. It is far less intricately designed, but also much lighter. “Try this, it’ll be easier to learn on,” he finishes.

                She nods and clicks back the charge. She faces the target again, elbow bent straight.

                “You’re much too stiff.”

                She frowns and tries to roll her shoulders.

                “No, no,” he says and then stands behind her again. He helps to lift her arm, just at the juncture of her billowing sleeve and her skin. Once he has dropped her into position, he places his hands on her hips, gently twisting them. “Like this. Keep your arm up and your sight down the barrel.”

                She swallows. It isn’t appropriate, she knows. While there is nothing but instruction in his mind, his hands are far more intimately placed than is allowed. She knows how this would look if anyone was to turn the corner into this little enclave, that she should pull away before that happens. Despite this, she can’t bring herself to move. His warm voice is in her ear, that gentle accent doing extraordinary things to her belly. She feels strangely _safe_. She lets herself relax against him, and his palm flattens across the corset on her stomach.

                “Breathe,” he instructs, and she follows the swell of his breath against her back with her own.

                She has a moment where she forgets the hollowness under his chest, her muscles unfurling as she matches him. Her skin tingles wherever his body meets hers, and she sinks into his warmth. She thinks she is hiding her reaction well enough until she feels his breath hitch before abruptly evening.

                She glances up at him, watching as his grey-blue eyes turn to meet her. There is something fiery in his gaze that he is trying desperately to hide. His lips are parted, breath hot on her cheek. Finally, he blinks and looks at the target. He licks his lips and then presses them together, eyes hardening. She watches his face a moment more, noting the jump in his cheek as his jaw tightens deliberately. A wash of giddiness coils inside her at the fact that he is affected just as much as she.

                “Focus on your target,” he reminds, even though his voice is husky.

                She nods and looks forward. Her movements are light in this newfound knowledge, and she is delighted that he hasn’t moved. Confidence is suddenly imbued within her.

                “Now pull.”

                She does as instructed, and a shatter sounds to answer the crack of the pistol. She gasps in surprise, finding the target decimated. “I did it!”

                He steps back, out of her space, but she is so excited that she barely acknowledges it.

                “I did it!” she cries again, and then whips to face him. She is smiling ear to ear, lightheaded between the success and him. “Thank you!”

                He gives a small smile, then turns his head away as it broadens.

                Somewhere in the adrenaline she finds the courage to throw her arms around his neck, hugging him hard against her. He is stiff at first, but then melds into her as a candle melting. With one hand, he cups the small of her back, the other spread between her shoulder blades, and he presses her close.

                Dizzy. That is only word she can find to describe the feeling. Like she is falling but also firmly grounded, her body whirling as her mind centers. She feel a click inside her, attraction mixing with something deeper.

                He is the first to pull away, and when he does so, it is abrupt. He steps back a few paces to create a deliberate distance between them. She feels a wash of cold, her brows pulling in confusion, but then hears the footsteps. She clears her throat and awkwardly sets the pistol down on the barrel her ammunition rests on.

                “Emma, _there_ you are!”

                Her eyes flash to him once more before she greets her mother. “Mom. I was just practicing.”

                Her lips are pulled into the coming reprimand until she sees him there. “Oh, Huntsman, you’re overseeing? Thank goodness.”

                He only ducks his head, the slightest bow, to answer her mother. Emma frowns, absently wishing he’d speak up more around others.

                “Emma, dear, next time just let us know. We were worried,” she fusses.

                “Mom, I’m fine,” she insists. “I just needed some time.”

                Her mother sighs, reaching forward to pet back her hair. She feels like a teenager again, and nearly huffs in frustration. “I know, sweetheart. We just worry. I’m glad you had someone helping, though. It just isn’t _safe_ to be by yourself.”

                “Yes,” she says hollowly, knowing arguing wouldn’t get her anywhere. She regards the remains of her target, wishing that the evidence would be useful in convincing her mother. She knows her, though, and knows Snow won’t be satisfied by her insisting that she knows how to defend herself. Suddenly, she brightens with an idea. “Perhaps if I have just one guard, and I can choose which …?”

                Snow’s eyes flash with worry before she finally nods. “Of course. Compromise, of course.”

                She looks over to smile at him, to see if he shares in the excitement of the chance, but she finds only empty space. Somewhere in the conversation, he ducked out. Her heart tugs slightly, and she glances down to compose herself. But now she has that kernel of feeling, knows its reciprocation … she can do much with this. She smiles brightly at her mother. “This will be better.”

                This will be a start.

               


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set sometime after the first chapter.

 

* * *

 

 

               He sweeps his hands over the rag in his hands, wincing as his knuckles pulled. He doesn’t break the swift pace he is using, even as he catches the drip of blood that falls from the cut above his eyebrow.

                The hallways are empty, the chill from the storm forcing everyone to their chambers even though the servants would typically be milling about at this point in the evening. Flakes of snow still cling to his skin, no warmth enough yet to melt it. His thick boots thud against the stone in a familiar way that he doesn’t like to consider. He hasn’t had to return to his room with an injury in months now.

                He pushes open the door only to find the room is already dimly lit by candlelight and the fire in the hearth. He turns quickly to find her on his bed, her brow creased as she glares at him.

                He hesitates in the doorway a moment before chancing a look behind him. He closes the door before addressing her. “You shouldn’t have risked it,” he admonishes lightly.

                She stands and lets her hood drop. Her long hair is loose, skin freshly cleaned. She is unadorned, but somehow looks more regal than usual amidst his simple quarters. “No one saw,” she replies, tone staccato.

                He drops the rag on the table by the entrance and pulls off his coat. He hadn’t worn the steel in the yard today, and the aches from the punches were proof of that as he rolled his shoulders. Still, pain he is accustomed to. He is more focused on the risk she is taking. “These people know how to remain unseen. It is their job.”

                She huffs. “And I am well aware of that. I am not stupid, Graham, if that’s what you think.”

                He turns to her, his eyebrows quirking in surprise. “Are you angry with me?”

                She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “You _must_ think I’m stupid, if you believe I didn’t know.”

                His wound is mostly closed by now, but his fingers trail up to press against it so it would stop its slow trickle. He is sure to have bruises forming in other areas, but that is the only one that should be visible to her. “This just happened,” he argues. It is true that he likely wouldn’t have told her, but he hasn’t even had time to keep it a secret.

                She rolls her eyes indelicately and stalks to the far side of the room. She clatters through his things, her movements abrupt and forceful. A rush from the basin sounds as she fills a bowl with water. She grabs a fresh dressing before approaching him. “And if that was what I was upset with, you could use that excuse,” she says in clipped tones. Her lips are twisted in a frown, but he can see fear and worry hiding behind her blue-green eyes when she finally meets his.

                “Emma,” he begins, and then his mouth snaps shut.

                She looks away and swallows visibly. Her jaw works a moment before she dips the cloth in the water and reaches for him.

                He yanks back abruptly. “You’ll get dirty.” She is all in white and he doesn’t want to muddy her.

                She looks at him pointedly, but only reaches to carefully press it to his head. He swallows a hiss at the pressure. The water is cold, but her touch is warm. “You told me you’d let me know before you even thought of leaving again,” she reminds.

                He ducks his chin, feeling guilt cluster in the depths of his stomach. She is right; he had told her that. It hadn’t been a promise, and it hadn’t been set in stone … but he had given her his word. He just hadn’t built the resolve to act on it quite yet. “I have to do this. You know that,” he says, his voice rough through the conviction and remorse.

                She presses her lips together firmly and says nothing. She continues to clean the blood from him, her soft hand firm as she grips his jaw to stabilize him.

                Perhaps her refusal to speak is worse than the words she could have hurled at this time. He licks his lips, eyes flicking across her features. “I was going to tell you.”

                “When?” she demands, and her face hardens. “As you were passing the gates again?”

                His closes his eyes at the memory, pained. “I didn’t mean for that last time,” he says in little more than a whisper.

                She presses her forehead to his briefly before pulling back. Her face is stained with distress. “I know. But you know how it hurt.”

                He takes her palm cautiously, and he is relieved to see her let him. He kisses along her lifeline in apology. “If I had more time on that mission, I would have. I promise you I would have.”

                She sighs, her shoulders slumping. “That’s the thing, Graham. You _volunteer_ for these missions. You could say _no_.”

                His spine straightens. “No, I couldn’t,” he says vehemently.

                She grimaces and pulls away to sit on his mattress again. She looks so strange, in all her fine silks and wools against the rough tartan and poplar of his bed. Something tight flits inside him, at the sudden visual reminder of how much she doesn’t belong here. With him.

                “You _could_ ,” she insists, her eyes narrowed once more. “You have no more debt to this kingdom. We are all far more in yours.”

                His lashes flick across his cheeks as he huffs a laugh of disbelief. “Oh, Emma, you’ve no idea,” he says. She hadn’t been alive when he had committed the evils he has to expunge from his soul. She doesn’t know that there is no true balance to be found, no way to make up for the lives lost. She isn’t at all aware of the things he needs to make up for, not truly. She has been told, but she doesn’t _know_.

                “I know the history,” she says crossly. She sighs, and her face softens. “And I also know your heart.”

                 He can’t help himself, and reaches to curl a strand of her golden hair around his finger. Despite all his convictions, he can’t help how much he loves her. His heart thunders as he lets himself bask in that feeling for a split moment. A sad smile crosses his face. “Even if that were true, I still have shown no worth to be with you.”

                She cocks her head to the side. “Is that what you’re doing?” she asks, and he hates to hear the hope in her voice that he’ll have to squash. “You’re trying to prove yourself before you’d be willing to come forward?”

                He grabs her waist to make her stand, pulling her close in his arms. She is just beginning to settle when he says a clear, “no.”

                She hums, her eyes sparkling. She still thinks he is saying something different, and his heart pulls that much more. “Good. You’re a good man, Graham. You don’t need to prov—“

                “Emma, you don’t understand,” he says, distress filling him. Something about her saying _that_ along with the name she’d chosen for him, makes him all the more desperate for her to see. “If you saw the way your parents were with me, how much they agree I need to do this—“

                She yanks back again. “What are you talking about? They _trust_ you. They trust you with _me_ , which is probably the biggest show of that they could give. How do you still believe that you are indebted to them with your very _life_?”

                He shakes his head. She hasn’t see the King and Queen, the way their half-hearted protests dwindle whenever he agrees, how the relief shows more plainly whenever he does. How the Queen will startle whenever he is near, how the King will fidget with his sword if they are alone too long.

                They make a show in trusting him, sure. But there is no truth in the gesture.

                “You are stubborn, you know that?” she says in exasperation.

                He says nothing, only raises a brow at her assertion. They are well-matched in this area, at least.

                She tilts her head and rises on tiptoes, lips pressing the corner of his mouth and he fights not to capture hers more aggressively.

                As much as he knows their lives do not fit, as much as he knows how he will be punished when they are discovered, and as much as he doesn’t _deserve_ her attentions, he can’t help how much he _needs_ her. It strikes the very depths of him, how much he does.

                But that is not what she is seeking right now, and he doesn’t push.

                She shudders slightly, and curls her arms around his biceps. “They believe you would keep me safer than all the other knights. They believe you would never take your eyes off me,” she murmurs as she drags her lips across his stubble. “They would be honored to know how aptly you follow.”

                He shakes his head, not giving into the fantasy she is trying to provide. “Emma.”

                She closes her eyes and rests her temple on his chest. It is an argument they barely have, in keeping this secret. She tries to find a way, and he knows she will continue to do so.

                He’s more resigned to the fact that their time is limited … _doomed_. He will show how he loves her all he can in the meantime, but decades of pain makes him well aware that he is not to be granted this happy ending.

                He spreads a hand between her shoulder blades, pressing her closer over the heart she restored. He lets it flutter a moment in quiet daydream, and gently rocks them back and forth.

                She pulls aside the collar of his shirt, lips caressing his chest delicately. “It’s too dangerous, Graham. Each time it just gets worse instead of better. I can’t lose you.”

                He holds her and ducks his head to rest his chin on the crown of her head, and he wonders for a moment if that would be easier for her. If he were to be lost in a bitter battle instead of forced from her side by the others she loves. He wonders that a moment, but knows he is too selfish to hope for it. Instead, he wishes for more time, even just a few heartbeats more, until he gains the courage to let go or they are separated. He could live with the misery in watching her from afar, he is sure, so long as he could always see her happy.

                A bead of wetness falls on his skin, and he holds rolls circles over her back soothingly. There is a small part that wants to say that he will stay, wants to tell her he won’t ever leave her side. But he knows better. Each time he goes makes her safer, and that is all he needs in order to decide. “I have many years in knowing how to protect myself.”

                Her head pops up. Her eyes are red-rimmed but her mouth is a firm line. “Then how did this happen?” she asks and reaches to trail her fingers over his brow.

                He had almost forgotten the cut. He usually is able to hide these little spats from her. As much as he likely should, he can’t find the will to lie to her about it now. But he doesn’t want to tell her the whole truth, either. “Sparring,” he answers.

                She raises an eyebrow emphatically. “Is that all you’ve to say? I’ve seen sparring before. It is always in full gear, and I don’t recall any raw knuckles when that happened.”

                He winces and checks his fist, tightening and loosening it. He should know better by now just how observant she is. “It’s between me and the others, and I assure you there’s nothing to be concerned with.”

                She studies the wound, eyes bouncing over it. “I just don’t understand,” she whispers. She pulls him down, making him rest at the foot of the bed. She kisses his brow tenderly as her hands turn over his sore knuckles.

                “Understand?” he questions, his voice pitched down. Her very presence lightens everything within him, and having her tend to him so reverently after her initial anger is wearing his steel down to nothing.

                “How the others could … could _hate_ you this much,” she finishes with fire in her tone.

                He brushes a thumb across her wrist. “Hey. They don’t—well, they still respect my leadership when it matters. They are useful.”

                She chuckles a little mirthlessly. “Useful. Yes, that about describes them fully,” she says. She brushes a thumb over the tear. “You’re fighting back?”

                He nods, wondering if she would find it alarming.

                She nods back. “Good.” She kisses him hard in reward, fingers tangling in his hair as she becomes more demanding. He matches her, digging his fingers into her waist and dragging her closer. She pulls back after a moment, creases across her brow again. “They won’t protect you though, will they?”

                She sounds so utterly sad. There is no way to counter her conclusion. He has no doubt that the other knights would leave him in a minute. “My princess, I’ve told you: I can protect myself,” he says instead.

                Her gaze shades a moment before she turns large eyes to him. “It is times like this I wish I knew how to use it,” she murmurs. “Then _I_ could protect you for once.”

                He swallows thickly, realizing what she is referring to almost immediately. “You had enough to restore my heart, and that’s all I needed,” he says firmly.

                She shrugs a shoulder and rises. “I should be able to do more. I know it frightens you. It can be so useful, though,” she says. “But alas ….”

                _She doesn’t know how to use her magic._

                It is a boon for him that she does not, even though sometimes he can swear he feels it swirling in her veins. And yes, it does frighten him; years with Regina made sure of that. More than that, though, is how it _worries_ him. He doesn’t want the consequences of magic falling on her, the only person he truly cares for.

                He knows that her ability for it will only grow, her power swelling as her faith in herself rises. And he knows already that he will shield her from any backlash that comes from it, would die a million times so long as it doesn’t touch her.

                His love for her is enough to overcome his fear if it means he will suffer and she will not.

                “Tell me: is it just another rebellion?” she asks, her hands wringing nervously.

                He pulls a hand through his hair, making curls stand on end. “A larger one this time. The supporters are growing instead of dwindling, and they are becoming bolder. Worse, there are reports they are keeping hearts hostage as well.”

                She is never informed about such things. Her parents shelter her too much, despite the fact that one day she will have to be the one leading these armies as heir. The King and Queen still see her as young and naïve; he can’t understand it. She has proved herself capable and astute on many occasions, and her quiet resolve is something all her subjects notice and revere.

                However, it is only with him that she gains the truth about the realities of her kingdom, as it has been since the day he came to the castle.

                She shivers visibly and presses her hand over her chest. “You’re right, you must go,” she says quietly, shoulders sagging in concession. “I know you. You would go even if you didn’t feel obligated to my parents.”

                He doesn’t have anything to say to that. It is true. Where hearts are involved, his own returned one pulses in anger. If there is a chance to help others that are like he was, he will take it.

                “How long will you be gone for this time?” she finally asks.

                He takes her hand in his. “We’re being sent to the eastern ridings.”

                Her face falls, though she tries to hide it by ducking her head. She would know what that means; the kingdom is a more than a fortnight’s journey in itself. With the weather and the task, it is likely to be months that he will be gone. “When do you leave?” she asks, her voice cloying in something like both determination and tears.

                He pulls her forward, keeping his eyes on her. “A week.”

                She nods jerkily and brushes her cheeks clean. “All right.” She unties the bow at her neck and lets her cape fall. She wears only a thin white gown, much too thin for the blankets of snow outside. It skims her body, whispering against her skin. In the candlelight, with her golden hair down and strewn across her shoulders, she is a vision. A paradigm of all that is good, the _only_ thing that is good, in his world.

                He feels his breathing hitch as he watches her. “It’s too dangerous in here,” he tries, feeling his resolve slip as she slides her hands under her straps and the silk pools at her feet.

                She rests her hands on his shoulders and drags his linen shirt languidly over his head. “I have you for a week. Let me have you for this time,” she insists.

                He leans forward and barely manages to catch himself before he sinks his teeth into her shoulder. He shudders hard. He wants, oh, how strange it is how much he wants. He has had decades of restraint and over a year of her touch, and somehow he still has to remind himself every time he is with her. She is his, he is hers … but he cannot claim her. Even though every old and new instinct _screams_ at him to do so. “Emma,” he forces out, then finally laves her skin with his tongue. “The door is bolted?”

                “Yes,” she says as she unlaces his trousers. “And Constance believes I am abed.”

                “How will you get back to your rooms?” he asks, his final protest as she sheds the last of his clothing from him. He nearly hisses as their bodies touch, skin to skin electrifying his every nerve.

                “There is a passage from the library,” she says simply.

                He touches every bit of her that he can, sliding over lithe curves and lean muscle. “Then why haven’t you used it before?” he asks huskily.

                She smirks, her own hands busy across his back and down his chest. “Because it’s too dangerous here,” she mocks before capturing his lips again.

                He growls out his disapproval, but ultimately ignores her tone. She is giving him time to pretend, to enjoy, to love her once more and he wants to take it.

                And maybe leave a mark or two where she can hide it, to appease the wolf inside him.

                Later, when she is drifting to sleep with heavy eyes and upturned lips, he entwines their fingers. “I will make it back to you, however I can,” he promises roughly.

                She blinks lazily. “You can’t promise that,” she reminds.

                He presses his lips together, and nods. “I know. But I can promise that I want to.”

                She hums her approval and buries her head into his neck. “Okay. That one I believe and I will hold you to,” she says. “But don’t say anything that sounds like a goodbye just yet. I still have six days of excuses to stay in your arms.”

                He leans down to kiss her swollen lips. “I shall make the effort worth your while, my princess.”

                She grins against him and presses a hand over his heart. “My home,” she whispers back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unprompted; I just wanted something a little happier to break things up a bit.

                She rolls onto her stomach, curving her lips before a yawn escapes her. She shivers slightly, aftershocks still quaking within her as she lets herself relax. “We should go here more often.”

                He had been walking to get them something to eat, and he half turns at her words. His lean body is gloriously exposed to the beams of light, every muscle chiseled and glistening. It almost sparks the fire back into her stomach, even through the exhaustion. He gives a small smile and nods once. “At least in these next seasons.”

                She hums her agreement and turns. She doesn’t even care about the dirt and stone beneath her as she drifts into a sleepy sort of peace.

                “Are you chilled?”

                She stretches like a cat and shakes her head languidly in denial. Her eyes are closed as she falls back against the grass. Her hair is in a messy topknot secured with a broach she had worn on her dress, and she is covered only in droplets of water and goosebumps.

                It is late spring, the weather having lost its chill and the snows recently melted. They are in the meadow by the riverbank, not too far from his newest camp. This is the first time she’s gotten him alone since he’s returned, and it seems the perfect place to celebrate.

                Here, she feels like a little kid again. There is something freeing about swimming with him in the river, with playing in the waterfall, of letting herself dry in the sun without a care in the world. She remembers this feeling, like the responsibilities and stifling nature of her station no longer exist, if only for the briefest of moments.

                Of course, now she gets the added benefit of pleasant aches all throughout her body, and a handsome man draping a blanket over her naked skin before offering her some berries in an outstretched hand.

                She squints up at him with her head cocked to the side, catching him at this quiet moment.

                His face is struck by the sunlight. His blue eyes are bright and sparkling, smile stretched wider than she’s ever seen before. His dark hair is tousled in wetness, messy curls along his temple. A couple drops of water curl down his face, accentuating the line of his cheekbone. He has always looks youthful except in the depths of his eyes, but now it is as if all those years are swept away.

                “What?” he asks, lips tugging further upward.

                She leans forward, touching his nose with her own. She kisses him, feather light. Her lashes flutter before she peeks up at him. “You are beautiful,” she utters.

                He huffs out a low laugh and captures her mouth in his own brief kiss. “I think the heat is getting to you, Highness.”

                She presses her lips more firmly to his own, humming in contentment. She likes this, the intimacy of being naked and idle, looking up at the man she loves looking so _happy_. She takes some of the offered berries and eats a few. “Not the heat at all. And it’s not because I’ve missed you,” she protests. She lets the blanket slip from her shoulders so she can perch on his lap instead. He automatically holds her loosely around the waist, dark blue eyes set on hers. “You are beautiful, my love,” she insists, more firmly this time. “Happiness suits you.”

                He ducks his head slightly, and peers up at her with those soft eyes. “And is this happiness I see on your own face, my princess?”

                She grins and reaches up to release her hair. “Very much so. And something else,” she says. She stretches her arms out wide and bends her spine to toss her head back. “Freedom.”

                He leans in and pulls her close, scattering kisses along her collarbone. His rough beard scratches along her skin, igniting her nerves. As always, there is restraint behind his desire, a wildfire just below the surface. It makes her long for the day that he can truly let go with her. After a moment, he exhales over her skin exhilaratingly. “You, Emma … you are lovelier than anything I’ve ever seen in my life.”

                She’s been told before that she is beautiful, stunning, gorgeous – many adjectives meant to flatter her. Mostly by men wanting to catch her attentions and share in her power, always ulterior motive on their breath.

                With him, words are never empty. They are always carefully chosen, since he speaks so infrequently most of the time. In these words, there is something so pure and reverent in his tone that she believes it full-heartedly.

                She bites down on her lip, enjoying his touch for a moment. “If that is so, it is because of you,” she declares, the joy flushing her skin. “Because I feel this free and this happy because of _you_.”

                He presses his lips together, and says nothing for a long moment. For a moment, she worries that he will try to deny it, to point to the times they struggle to find this peace. Instead, he reaches to tuck her hair behind her ear. “I think it might just be you.”

                She scoffs but laughs. “You will take my compliment, Sir.”

                He edges around a smile, then his expression evolves into awe. “You make me so happy, Emma,” his tone is hushed, thoughtful. “I don’t think you understand or I could even express what that means for me.”

                The way he says it makes it sound like a different word, one weighty and mixed with spatters of emotion that lean toward the light. His face is serious, but also so sweetly open and expressive. His countenance does more to explain than his words ever could.

                She knows, vaguely, what this means for him. The fact that she can ignite this in his heart makes her own quicken in excitement. She loves him, but this is reassuring in a way she cannot explain. His happiness is something she longs to always see within him, and the fact that it exists because of _her_ makes her all the more certain of them as a couple.

                They will make it. If they make each other this happy, they _have_ to make it.

                She presses her forehead into his, breathing him in deeply. “Perhaps I can’t fully understand. I just understand how _you_ make _me_ feel.”

                He presses his mouth to hers roughly, and she falls against the tall blades of grass once again. He grips her wrists as he drinks her in, slowly relaxing before the touches become more worshipful, caressing down her side and up her back. Her breath is absolutely stolen as she tries to keep the pace, tries to use her hands in the same manner over his skin.

                She has never known that love could be articulated so fully without words.

                They don’t make love again, and instead fall into a mess of limbs. The sun is warm, and she loves being entangled with him so. A comfortable silence falls over them as he rests his head on her, pulling her possessively close but fully relaxed. They have no schedule set, and the sun is long for its descent, so there is no rush to do anything. She occasionally reaches beside them to the fruit, eating it or offering it to him, but it is the most action she is willing to make right now.

                Her thoughts don’t meander, focusing on him until she realizes she must express something. “Don’t do that again,” she says.

                He frowns and turns his head to look up at her. “Was something wrong?”

                She almost kicks herself for the worry etched on his features, the misunderstanding she can see taking shape on his face. She quickly shakes her head. “Don’t leave me like that again.”

                “Emma—“

                “I don’t mean ever,” she says immediately. She knows she cannot ask that of him. She reaches to flatten a hand over his heart. “Just – not like that.”

                He looks chagrinned, eyes rounding in guilt. “I am sorry.”

                “I know,” she answers. She’s not going to demand further. She’s said what she needs, and that is all that she can do.

                 He rests a palm over her hand on his chest, then moves it to cup her face. “I will tell you next time,” he says.

                “Before you make a decision?” she hesitates before asking.

                His thumb brushes over her cheekbone, and he tilts his head. “I will try,” he says, and she appreciates his honesty.

                “Good. I need to be able to say a proper goodbye,” she admonishes with a pout. She had been blindsided with his leaving, no time to say what was needed or to feel his touch again in the company of the garrison. She takes a deep breath and reaches to cover his hand, entwining their fingers. “At least you were only gone a week,” she murmurs.

                He lets out a low growl and pins her more fully to the ground. “And I am intent on making it up to you, my princess.”

                She giggles, and it switches to a breathy moan of anticipation as he trips wet, whiskered kisses down her neck.

                The brief heavy moment melts away easily, and she trusts him to keep his word. And right now, she doesn’t want to think of the future or the past.

                In this little slice of paradise, she won’t let the outside world interfere.

                Not when they can make each other this happy.

 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

 

                “Huntsman!”

                He can’t help his first flinch at the address, though he is quicker to steel himself than usual. He turns to see the Queen’s beaming face. He gives an informal bow, eyes drifting past her to the princess as he does so. “Your Majesties.”

                Snow raises her chin with a grand smile, and she reaches back to grab Emma’s hand. “Sir Knight, we have been discussing my daughter’s outings of late, as I am sure you’re aware.”

                His reaction to his newest title is less severe, but he still internally winces at it. It is still new and somewhat stifling in its implication. He needs it for what he plans to do, to get as close to atoning as he can for the things scarring his soul. But it doesn’t rest on his shoulders comfortably yet; he assumes it never will.

                Any address from humans doesn’t settle correctly.

                He nods to her statement, eyes flicking over the princess. “Yes.” It is no news that the princess wants more freedom and a chance to explore. Something about that fire within her spoke to a place deep within him, even if he is fairly certain that isn’t all that has awakened his emotion.

                Snow tugs her daughter forward slightly. It is almost unnatural how silent she is being, her blue-green eyes rapt and nervous. “We have come to a compromise. She shall have one armed guard with her at all times, but she will be allowed to leave the palace walls.” She pauses and turns to him again. “Now, this should all be familiar to you, Huntsman. She has had several such excursions without incident with several of our knights in the past few weeks. But her father and I have discussed that you might be one more qualified to keep watch on her.”

                He can’t help cocking his head to the side in confusion. “I am to be her bodyguard?”

                Emma scoffs at the word and finally speaks up. “You are to be my companion,” she declares, her fingers twitching at her side. “I am well prepared enough to take care of myself.”

                The Queen bristles and shakes her head. “You are the heir, Emma. Yes, he will be your bodyguard. One of your many.”

                Her sea colored gaze is burning into him, showing her resolve and continued ire at her mother. He feels his lip quirk slightly before he ducks his head. He stamps down the affect and then stares determinedly at Snow. “It is not what I came to the castle for, however.”

                Snow nods once. “Yes, Huntsman, as I am aware. We thought it best to rotate her guards, in any case. But you wouldn’t mind a turn or two, yes?”

                A question from a royal isn’t really a question. This King and Queen will not react as the Usurper would have, but he still cannot outright refuse. He looks to the princess once more. She looks full to the brim of hope, though she tries to hide it. He feels something quicken within him before he swallows it away. “It would be an honor, I’m sure,” he says despite himself. He isn’t sure it is only a platitude.

                 Snow’s falters for barely a moment before her smile is back. “I know you are skilled, Huntsman, and you shall care for my daughter.”

                And there it is. The Queen has that bit of uncertainty, unease behind her words, fitted into her expression so hard she cannot extract it.

                Emma has stepped forward, though, enough to distract them both. “We can get on with it, then?”

                He bows again, but doesn’t verbally answer.

                Snow says something hushed to her daughter before her voice rises. “You shall take Aeron, Emma. Your usual steed isn’t accustomed to the trip.”

                He frowns slightly. He still much prefers walking than using an animal for his travels. He doesn’t protest the Queen’s idea, however, as he takes in the princess’ attire. She is in a stiff, heavy golden skirt with a fitted and intricately buttoned burgundy bodice. Though he sees boots under the skirt, he is sure she would be better suited to the horse than a journey of any distance on foot. And perhaps if there is danger, it is best for the quicker route to escape.

                It is strange, watching the goodbyes between mother and daughter. The Queen collects her into a hug that is equal parts firm and loving. Emma softens, hard edges melting away. He is not sure why the empty part of him twists up in disquiet to see it.

                Once she has saddled her horse, they start a path to the forest with their horses at a trot. He glances over at Emma more and more frequently between keeping careful watch for dangers.

                It is strange, watching her as she delights in her surroundings. The wind is mussing her intricate bun, coils of golden blonde mixing between the jewels of her crown. Her eyes are bright, wide as they take in the scenery and her pink lips are in a permanent smile.

                From the corner of his eye, he sees one of his brother’s family darting through the trees. He is matching their pace, a second layer of protection. For the first time, he can actually feel something for this distant family member. He looks to the princess again, knowing it is her doing. Somehow.

                There is something beautiful about her like this. Something lights inside him that he tries not to feel. He is ill-matched to a princess, to say the least. No matter that she is the first to spark emotion in his hollow chest.

                “Here is fine,” she declares in almost a sigh, still contented as she makes the horse stop.

                He descends first, and reaches to help her. He feels the static over his chest, like webbing clearing as his hands circle her waist. She stiffens slightly, her head reared back to watch his face. He pulls away quickly, but knows from her look that she feels it as well. It is dangerous, the fact that she knows.

                She doesn’t comment, and instead stretches for her supplies on the saddle.

                “What is it you wish to do, Your Highness?” he asks softly.

                She throws a grin his way before turning back to her things. A bow is pulled loose. “Practice,” she answers.

                He frowns. “You said you are competent.”

                She arches a brow. “At the targets within the palace. This is not the same.”

                He nods, conceding. He looks over the area she has chosen, assessing the weak points. He is so involved that he doesn’t notice her approach until her hand is on his arm. He turns sharply to find her in his space, lips softly curving into a smile and eyes alight. He swallows. “What?”

                She adjusts the cache of arrows on her shoulder. “Will you help?”

                He carefully pulls away so she is no longer touching him. “I need to check the area, Princess.”

                She frowns slightly. “And after?”

                His mind is on the last time, the embrace she gave him after she accomplished her shot. He remembers how much he wanted to pull her closer, how strange it was to feel that want. He shakes his head. “There is much needed to be sure you are safe.”

                Her frown deepens and she looks away. She begins to walk back to her bow but then stops. She turns again. “Please?”

                Something inside him cracks. “Why?”

                She offers a small smile. “I expect my tutors would want me to learn from one who never misses,” she says. Then she presses her lips together. Her eyes are wide, hopeful instead of determined. “Please, Huntsman. Please teach me.”

                When has he ever been asked, where it felt like it was actually someone imploring him and not simply offering words of false question? He knows the Queen’s order supersedes hers, that protecting her is his priority and he can use that to deny her. He _can_ say no. He is _expected_ to say no.

                Then why does he want to say yes, to have an excuse to be close to her once again?

                “Okay,” he says, barely audible.

                Her whole face brightens, and the empty space within him pulls.

                He looks away sharply. “Only since the wolf is helping secure the area.”

                She turns, and he knows when her eyes finally set on the beast. Instead of showing fear, she illuminates in awe. “He is lovely,” she says. “Is he one of your own?”

                He startles slightly. “What?”

                She cocks her head to the side. “You grew up with them, did you not?”

                His breath hitches, surprise and uneasiness filling him. “How do you know this?” he asks.

                She gives a pointed look as she sets the weapon down. “You expect that your histories aren’t acknowledged? You were in the beginning battles with the Usurper. All that is known of you is documented.”

                Heat itches along his skin at the reminder. Somehow, Regina’s more recent title made her seem all the more ominous. He is curious, though. “All that is known,” he repeats, brow furrowing.

                She nods. “There is not much,” she says. “You seem a private person, and that is reflected. But this is one anecdote that is known to be true.”

                A private person. Such a phrase seems so trite and weightless when it comes to how he feels. “I suppose,” he murmurs, and stares at the dark furred wolf. “He is part of the pack, though I do not know him well,” he offers after a beat. He isn’t sure why he feels the need to answer her.

                She nods, and her delicate hand reaches forward. The beast trots to them and sniffs her palm, glancing at him uncertainly before running back to his place amongst the bushes. It is a young wolf, curious and playful but very willing to concede to an alpha in the form of a human.

                He studies her a moment as she grins. His throat feels tight, and he can admit that he is pleased at her ability to endear herself to the animal.

                Or maybe pleased isn’t the word for what he feels.

                He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck before gesturing to her supplies. “Let me see your form,” he says, the easiest way to change the subject.

                She presses her lips together, and catches his eye. The air feels so heavy between them, all that is unsaid thickening it. She grabs her bow and aims steadily. Her face is painted in determination, her green eyes set across the meadow. She releases the tension and the gilded arrow splinters into the bark of a far tree.

                “Is that where you were aiming?” he asks, squinting at its place. It seems just shy of the center of the trunk.

                “Yes,” she says with a bit of confidence.

                He nods. “Good.” He tugs another free. “Now try to split it.”

                Her mouth falls open but quickly shuts. She furrows her brow at the arrow a moment before nodding. Her aim is steadier now, her focus more direct. This time, she releases with a low breath before groaning in frustration.

                He looks to the arrow. He is impressed; it is lined almost perfectly parallel with her first shot, though she failed to halve it. “Very good,” he says.

                “I missed,” she says with a frown.

                “But your aim is still good. The distance is further than you are used to, and there is no covering against the wind like at the training yard. You will be able to improve with only minor adjustments,” he insists.

                She turns her bright eyes on him, teeth worrying her bottom lip slightly. “Can I see you do it?”

                He shrugs and pulls his own equipment off the horse. He aims and begins to pull back.

                “Wait.”

                He turns, finding her closer than he assumed. She is staring forward, but she edges into his space further. The scent of cinnamon and honey falls over him and he tries not to inhale it too deeply. “What am I waiting for?”

                She peeks up at him shyly before looking to the tree. “I want to see how you are aiming,” she says. Her lithe body shifts into his, her head tilting up to try to stare down the arrow. The desire to pull her closer is building within him, and he can feel as she gives into that feeling to lean her weight against his chest.

                “Emma.” It is the first time he’s used her name instead of her title, but this doesn’t seem … appropriate. One of them has to snap out of it.

                She peers up again, and his stomach flips. “I just want to see,” she repeats, even as her eyes are fire.

                He swallows. “I can’t aim properly like this,” he warns, his voice low. Not with her in the way of his arm, not with the scent of her imbuing over him, distracting him.

                She has a bit of challenge in her expression as she glances up. “I thought you never miss?”

                He breathes in sharply and then releases, letting it split hers in half. “That’s still not the best for instruction,” he says, raising an eyebrow as he works to move away from her.

                She looks a little flushed. “But it’s certainly impressive.” He can tell she wants to step back into his space. _He_ wants her to be in his space, but he knows better than that.

                He ducks his head and then nods to her bow. “What is your goal?”

                She flushes slightly, then looks emboldened. “To impress you.”

                His lashes flick across his cheekbone, and he can’t help the smile that crosses his face. “Princess, you’ve done _that_.”

                She reaches forward with hesitant fingers before coiling around his wrist. He watches as if in a trance, letting her hand slip against his skin. He looks up to meet her eye, watching her closely. She bites down on her lip before nodding once. “Show me?”

                He knows in his soul that she is not talking about her instruction, but he fully ignores that. He can’t acknowledge it. He _can’t_. “Get your bow.”

                Her face dims slightly in disappointment before she collects it. Her fingers work over the filigree along its edges before she takes a breath. Her expression pulls in determination as she aims. “Like this?” she asks.

                He moves into her space of his own accord this time, making slight adjustments to her form. “Feel for the wind, its rhythm,” he advises. He tries not to let his touch linger along her skin, the innocent brush of hands not allowing themselves to become more intimate. “Make adjustments for it.”

                Just like last time, she eases into the stance, into him. What is it about them together that seems to make the skill nothing? Everything becomes simpler, easier. It shouldn’t; if anything, the spark in his gut should make everything _worse_.

                It _will_ make everything worse.

                But he finds that he feels in control, like his whole world narrows and becomes manageable. And he finds that he is only fighting because his soul _wants_ in a way he never has before. Even when he had his heart, he has never felt _this_.

                She is dangerous. But she is also all he wants.

                “I feel it,” she breathes.

                He guides her bow a little more, cheek resting against hers. “Which direction?”

                She glides fractionally closer. “Northeast.”

                He nods. “You have your anchor?”

                She smiles slightly; he can feel her cheek twitch. “Yes.”

                “Then relax,” he whispers.

                She does so, but then she barely looks at the arrow centimeters from her target. Her chest is rising and falling heavily, her head tilted back to look at him. The air feels heavy around him, and he is frozen in her stare. Her gaze drops slightly, to his lips, and he quickly falls back.

                He scratches the back of his neck, trying to pretend that they weren’t just heartbeats away from crossing a line. “You are improving already, Your Highness,” he says.

                Her hand is at her temple. She looks dazed, like she can’t quite believe what almost happened as well. “Yes. I think … I think we can break from that,” she says with a blink.

                “You can continue to practice on your form, if you wish. But I think it would be best if I secure the meadow,” he says. His tongue feels heavy; he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay with her, stay in her space, to continue _feeling_. But he knows it isn’t right. He can’t continue this. _Treason_ , he reminds himself. To let himself slip, to yank her close and tilt her chin up to meet his lips … _treason_.

                She closes her eyes, seems to steady herself. “That will probably be best,” she says dully, disappointment just below her tone.

                He looks up at her one more time, and she raises her eyes to him. She is stunning with wind-whipped hair and a flush in her cheeks. Her eyes are what capture him; in her gaze is the understanding of what they won’t say, of what they _can’t_ say.

                He is unsure if he feels better in knowing they both acknowledge the impossibility.

                “I will leave you to it, Princess,” he murmurs.

                They are careful to keep their distance in the interim, as she notches new arrows and lands them in the trunk of the far tree in mixing patterns. The young wolf has returned, as enraptured in her presence as he is. He is smarter and stays at the tree line, head resting on paws and almost out of sight.

                If he believed in such things, he’d think it an omen.

                When she finally tires of her practice, they head back. The silence is heavy, tension-filled and he is ill-experienced in how to deal with it. He has never had such a situation come upon him, and he has never been able to use words to soothe anyway.

                The palace beckons on the horizon, the trees parting just so to encompass the beaches that lead to it. The fog has descended, the last of the light reflecting a kaleidoscope of color. The tunnels are to the left of the surreal vision, the easiest way back into her royal nest.

                She stops her horse, her head held high. “A moment, if you will,” she breathes.

                He pauses. She inhales audibly, her lovely eyes fluttering closed. “Their majesties are waiting, Your Highness,” he reminds softly.

                The reins loosen from her grip. “I know,” she murmurs. She hops off the animal before turning back to it and stroking its neck. She leans her head upon it, looking at the scenery. “But it’s like a dream out here.”

                He dismounts, telling himself it is because he will be easier into action if he is on her level. “Is it?”

                She reaches out, hesitating a moment before finally curling her hand around his wrist. “Come, Huntsman. See for yourself.”

                He looks down at her for several beats as she squints into the light mist. He finally turns, but the illusory image of the seaside castle is nothing compared to her looking so enraptured. “It is good to have pride in your kingdom,” he offers plainly. It is certainly something in her he respects.

                She nods, the fingers on his wrist playing a delicate melody on the keys of his veins. “I just wish I was trusted more with it,” she says wistfully.

                He tries to be subtle in extracting himself from her. “You are to rule over the whole of it eventually,” he reminds.

                She sighs. She still is watching the distance, her eyes fogged. “And until then, I am kept in the dark of everything that isn’t pleasant about it.”

                He ducks his head. “I am sure you are aware of enough.”

                She shakes her head stubbornly. “They still see me as they would a child. I can only glean pieces from what I overhear.”

                “You are young, but you are no youth,” he agrees. He doesn’t put much stock in ages as he has never entirely known his own, but she is well out of her teens. What’s more is that her mind is sharp, pragmatic. She is no starry-eyed child, to be certain. She just doesn’t have the experience of pain and hardship like her parents had before her. Surely that alone isn’t the measure of maturity. “You have shown an aptitude for weaponry and politics alike. I cannot pretend to know why they leave you out of it.”

                She glances to her feet. “They feel I should be satisfied with what I have now.”

                He rests an uncertain hand at her elbow. “You make known your desire for more.”

                She looks up at him with darkened eyes. “Yes, I have.”

                It is only then he realizes his words. He can’t help his face from flushing before he abruptly turns. “We should head back. Sundown is coming.”

                “Would _you_ tell me of it?”

                He turns. “Tell you of what?”

                She smiles uncertainly. “You are a high-ranking knight, Huntsman. I know you are trusted with certain secrets of the palace. Of the dangers it faces, of the strategies to mitigate them. I wish to learn so I am not so far behind when the time comes. I do not wish to be as naïve as they’d like me to be. I want to help the future of our kingdom. So … would you?”

                “You know it is not allowed,” he states matter-of-factly. He knows it is strictly against the wishes of the King and Queen, but in truth he has no mind for that. She is right; she does deserve to know of her kingdom. “If we are given the chance to speak privately, I would indeed.”

                She comes forward, steps slowed to a hunter’s pace. “You would be willing to speak with me privately? Often?”

                The heat from her body encompasses him, and he feels the spark across his chest again. He carefully reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “In the capacity of an advisor, I would.”

                She licks her lips before pressing. “And … and in the capacity of a friend?” she asks, and the question is almost timid.

                He presses his lips together. He remembers the brunette in the tower, the one human he’d felt closest to calling a friend. It feels nothing like this. He wants this with her, though, this promise of connection. They are bowed into each other, bodies silhouetted from the setting sun. It feels so private, just outside the palace gates. Here, he feels almost safe. “If you would see me as such,” he finally answers.

                She smiles so gently, so sweetly. He almost believes he can see what her parents see in this expression, the innocence in her face. But it is offset by the spark in her eyes, the glint that matches her fire. “I can see you as such.”

                “Then I can say that I believe you will make a superb ruler, Princess Emma, and as such believe you need all the tools at your disposal.” He almost leans forward, almost sinks to her forehead in an act so expressly intimate. Instead he reaches for the reins of the horse behind them, and nods to the entrance. “Come.”

                “Tomorrow,” she says firmly. “Please. Say you will meet me at the library. I have questions.”

                His lips part, uncertainty hanging inside him. But the ‘please’ does still move him. “Just questions,” he says.

                She crosses her arms around her waist. “Yes. For now, just questions.”

                He nods. “Then I swear I shall be there.”

                She beams, the light inside her stretching across her face. He feels it echo in him, and he feels almost whole. “Thank you.”

                He flushes and holds the gate for her. “Until then, Your Highness.”

                She half curtseys as she passes, cheeks pink. “Until then, Sir Knight.”

                He briefly wonders what he is getting himself into before his thoughts slide to not caring. He can live in this capacity; he can be a friend to her. He can distance himself better within the palace walls.

                He can keep his emotions sealed better there.

                At least for now.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another that is unprompted, and more guided by the picspam for later today. Blame Jamie for this piece. 
> 
> Bonus points to those that catch what song was on my mind when writing this (hint: Kristy is not subtle).

* * *

 

                She wakes to the feel of his hands across her back, nails lightly raking against her skin. She blinks her eyes open, finding dark blue set on her face. He notices immediately that she has risen even though his eyes are on her lips, and he loosens his hold.

                She had snuck him into her rooms the night before, the boldest she’s ever been in the palace. If it hadn’t been for the celebration and the hard drinking the servants were privy to, she wouldn’t have risked it.

                At least … she thinks she wouldn’t have. The past week, she has become more and more reckless with him. She has snuck into his room, slipping past the guards and servants near his quarters to spend long nights. She has stretched their time to its limits, just barely in her own bed before her lady’s maid came to wake her. She has even dared to kiss him in the library one day, just a few stacks of books between them and Alexandra, another royal sure to judge had they been discovered.

                Perhaps she is tired of the secrecy. Perhaps she wants them to be caught, for the charade to end.

                She is still scared, though, and it is compounded by the fear she catches in him. She does not want to rush him, or else she may have gained the confidence this past week. But she _will_ test the boundaries of his fear, just a little.

                Now, she is all the more grateful that she had a whole night with him breathing beside her, for her to use these moments to stitch together a dream of a future they might never get.

                She slips down onto her side of the bed but doesn’t let him get far. She traps him close again with an arm around his waist and a kiss pressed onto his shoulder. He smiles, a soft lift of his lips before his gaze settles.

                “What?” she asks, then breathes deeply in an attempt to clear the drowsiness from her voice.

                Lines form across his forehead, but then he shakes his head. “It’s morning.”

                His accent is deeper, softly vibrating against her chest. She keeps it there a moment before she acknowledges the statement. “Constance won’t be in to wake me for another hour,” she attempts.

                Her stall doesn’t work, just as she knew it wouldn’t. He extracts himself from the tangle of her body, and then crosses to her window. The pale light of the pre-dawn softens him, making him look ethereal. His face is the barest she’s ever seen and she thinks, for once, he appears younger than she. “It is today,” he reminds gently.

                She pulls the duvet around her body, shivering at the sudden chill. “I know,” she says with a frown, even if she had indeed forgotten for a moment. His hair is cut and his beard shaved for a reason; he will have no time for it while in the woods fighting rebels.

                She’s a little dizzy as she rises to join him, sleep still cloying her thoughts. She grabs the nightgown from her vanity and drapes it over herself. She walks over to him, but doesn’t step inside his space. “How long?” she finally asks.

                His lashes flutter, and he can’t yet turn to her. “They will wait for the castle to rise. There is to be a formal goodbye and a speech from the King to the entire court before the garrison leaves.”

                “And you as their captain will need to arrive first,” she finishes for him. A formal goodbye to the battalion is most uncommon; had she not gotten the information from him she would have known the seriousness of his mission by this alone.

                “Yes,” he says to her, simple and abrupt.

                She ducks her head and twists her hands together. Why does it feel like he is already gone?

                “I love you.”

                Her head snaps up. He so rarely says the words, and she rarely needs them. She can’t say she is unaffected by those syllables, and she takes a moment to memorize the way they are said before she responds. “You have my whole heart, Graham. And you have your promise to uphold.”

                He shudders and crosses to her. He lifts her chin with gentle fingers. “You _are_ my whole heart, Emma,” he asserts before capturing her lips with his own.

                She presses her lips together so they do not quiver once they are separated. “Swear it again,” she whispers.

                He gives a smile, cupping her face. “I will make it back to you.”

                Even though she had protested the promise before, she allows it now. She feels the _want_ in his words, and knows he will not give up. “Good,” she says, and kisses him again.

                “If there’s a reason that I’m by your side …,” he trails off and presses his forehead to hers, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

                She swallows. This is probably the closest he will come to believing they are meant. It is certainly the closest he would dare speak of; he doesn’t like to get her hopes up. She is careful not to let his words flicker into her expression, even though her heart is filled.

                They are meant. She _knows_ it.

                Instead, she tracks her hands over his skin, feeling for the scars on his body. She has long since memorized them all, but she takes a moment to find them once more before he leaves to add to them. She has no doubt there will indeed be more when he returns. This time is so much longer, so much more dangerous, and he will be taking on an even greater role.

                He lets her take the time, and after a long moment his own hands curl down her back. His touch is feather-light as it eases her nightgown off. His callouses cause her every nerve to ignite as he makes his own exploration. It feels as though he has mapped her body in a way even she can’t; he can and has used his knowledge to weaken her knees and send her spiraling. Today, in the bare light of morning, he only traces the familiar paths, rememorizing her.

                As she touches him back, she suddenly realizes how desperately they are in making subconscious memories with their fingertips in order to fill the nights alone.

                Finally, his thumb rolls over the bruise he’d made on the inside of her thigh, and it resonates in past sensation. She can feel the heat and his teeth and the possessiveness, and wants _more_.

                “This’ll be gone when I return,” he muses. He drops to his knees and presses a chaste kiss to it.

                _Months_ , she is reminded. No mark he could make in this moment will last as long as his absence. “You will need to make more,” she says. She runs a hand through his hair, testing him. She knows they have no time to lay together again.

                He sighs and drops her leg back into place. He looks up, his eyes full of promise. “When I return.”

                She feels the butterflies in her belly strengthen her smile. “When you return,” she echoes.

                He grabs his things from the floor. When he rises to dress, he scatters his lips across her shoulders. “You won’t forget?”

                Her heart almost breaks at the vulnerability in his voice. She grabs his jaw in her hand and kisses him roughly. “You think I would forget my true love?” she demands.

                Heat rises in his cheeks and he looks away.

                She knows her huntsman. She knows he doesn’t believe himself deserving of what they have. Instead, she appeals to the side he believes. “I won’t forget your promise.”

                His answering smile is shy. “You will hold me to it, then?”

                “My one command as your princess,” she teases, even as the bolt of worry wavers her voice.

                He raises an eyebrow. “One?”

                She leans her forehead against his chest. “Fine. The one I care most about, then.”

                He wraps her in an embrace and kisses the crown on her head. “I do truly love you,” he murmurs.

                “I know you do,” she answers. “And one day you will believe that I could never love another as I do you.”

                There are footsteps in the hall, and they both turn to her door. It is not time yet, and it is just the beginning of the maids attending to their tasks, but it reminds them of the time. “I need to go.”

                She nods, and leans up to press her mouth to his once more. “Remember what you are coming home to. That I will need my home.”

                He entwines their fingers and nods. He leans down one final time, kissing her thoroughly. He says nothing more as he escapes behind the bookcase, down the narrow passage that will lead him away. She sighs and finds her nightgown, pulling it over her body.

                When Constance arrives, she is at her vanity, having smoothed the locks of her hair free from its tangles. “You are up early, Your Highness,” she remarks before taking the brush from her hands. “You did not wish to sleep in after the festivities?”

                She shakes her head, and watches her lady’s maid from the polished mirror. There is nothing in her that gives anything away, but she still remains suspicious any time someone notices her deviating from her routine. “I was wakeful.”

                Constance nods, and only hums as she begins her styling.

                Emma can’t quite tell if what she feels is purely relief, or something else.

                Three other maids attend to her to get her ready for the address. She tries not to sway in anticipation, tries to focus on rising and sinking into the clothing. She feels awfully lightheaded as they prepare her in layers of cloth and makeup.

                She exits her room fully dressed for the event in a stiff, heavy gown. The sleeves swallow her, giving her appearance one of more stature to oppose the assembly of the military faction. The crown she wears is intricate and tall, not the lighter tiaras meant for everyday.

                When she enters the throne room, her parents are seated. The court is hushed. Her mother, she finds, is dressed similarly. Her father is in golds and a lengthy cape, his sword apparent on his belt. To the side on an elaborate couch are the members of the visiting family: Thomas, Ella, Alexandra, Gerald, and even little Eliza are in the colors of their kingdom but with equal edges to their looks. All eight are all meant to look imposing, and endlessly regal.  

                Which is why, perhaps, she feels just the opposite when she finds his eye across the room.

                He is dressed in riding armor, leathers intricate and thick with no metal to be found save for his weaponry. He is sleek and powerful in the attire. His cape is unlike the others’ that fill his company; teal is only on the inside and midnight black out. He is their leader, but he is so separate from them at the same time. He looks mysterious as ever, cobalt gaze penetrating over the heads of everyone else.

                The bruise on her thigh burns.

                Now that they are gathered, her father allows them to sit. The throne feels cumbersome, and she straightens tall so that no one may see her falter. She looks out over the court before lingering back to the battalion.

                The king begins his speech, face dazzling with pride and determination. He gestures to King Thomas, praising him on finding the rebel faction before it could reach further into the lands out-skirting their kingdoms. Then, he starts in with a speech for the battalion.

                It is rousing, she is sure, but she cannot hear one bit of it when she is trying to stamp the blush from rising in her cheeks whenever she finds him in the sea of people.

                Suddenly, there is applause and she struggles to keep up with it. She turns to smile up at her father. He looks pleased, and reaches to squeeze her mother’s hand before he turns to his subjects again. They all bow to them, and her heart begins to quiver in anticipation.

                She rises to meet her parents as they all approach the top of the steps. She watches raptly as the crowd parts for their commander to come forward.

                Her mother is the first to reach forward, allowing him to take her hand. He bows rigidly, and there is a crinkle that forms between her mother’s eyes before it abruptly evens. “Sir Knight, we wish your group luck and safe passage.”

                Her father is next, regally tall as he nods to him. “We admire the bravery and risk your battalion is taking for this kingdom. It will not go unforgotten.”

                 Her last. She hopes her voice does not shake as she offers her hand. “May the gods grant your safe return.” It is the ceremonial statement, but she and he both know full well that she is using the singular ‘you’ in this case.

                His bow is more formal than any she’s ever seen him use, as for once his eyes are not on hers throughout his genuflection. But perhaps it is because the action hides how his lips linger too close, how his thumb rolls across her pulse. It feels a ghost of a kiss, hidden and yet so apparent.

                It sends shivers down her spine.

                It breaks her heart, this secretive goodbye in the shadow of the glowing if hasty one in her rooms. She doesn’t want to release him, doesn’t want to see him leave. She wants to scream and cry, to damn the consequences and pull him close. She feels the bitterness of their absence before he has even made a step.

                _Hearts_ , he’d said. The rebels are after _hearts_. It’s too much and it’s too long, and she can’t ensure his safety with him so _far_.

                But he drops her hand at the appropriate time, stepping back to the rest.

                “These men take great risk in defending our kingdom from those loyal to the Usurper,” her father says, addressing the court. “We are fortunate to have them on our side. Thank you all for coming to lend your support.”

                Applause sounds once more, and she feels a wave of nausea. The thought of the Usurper makes her ill now. Before him, tales of the witch had simply been a scary story; now her dark fingerprint is felt over her entire life, over _his_. She looks to find his head ducked down, and she desperately wants to protect him.

                “Emma.” She feels a hand between her shoulder blades and looks up to her mother’s face. “You may go now. Your father is only to discuss strategy next.”

                Bitterness rises within her; had she more strength at the moment, had she not the sense that she may fall to tears through another stimulus, she may have fought the dismissal. Instead, she only nods.  

                She feels eyes on her throughout her entire exit.

                She can’t look back. Not now, not in front of everyone.

                Once she reaches her rooms, Constance is not there. A couple of her other maids linger by her door, but they are more easily dismissed after asking them to loosen her corset. After a moment’s thought, she asks for a bath to be drawn as well. She is more likely to have time alone increased when she is left to bathe.

                She sheds the heavy fabric and leaves its pile by the door as the room is prepared. She cross in to her bedroom in only her shift. It feels empty and sterile without him now; the servants had cleaned, and the sheets are changed. She wouldn’t even have the chance to smell him on her bedding.

                She sits in the window box, finding the indentations in the dew he had made on the glass that morning. She traces the marks absently before turning her gaze to the courtyard.

                The evergreens dot the path out of the castle and the night’s snows are being shoveled away by a team of men, leaving a dirty path of wet leaves in their midst. As she watches, the garrison begin to ride out into the distance. Dozens head for the forest, clusters of teal blurring together. Finally, a lone white horse emerges in her sight, a man in a dark cape. It is too far to make out his expression, but she sees as he turns to face her window.

                Her hands glow, magic heavy in them. She wants to wield it, wants to cover him in it so that no one may touch him. But she knows the pale yellow will fade and disperse, just as it always does. She watches with a heavy heart as a rainbow of color floats from her palms, fogging and disappearing into the air.

                It disappears in the same time as he does. Her heart feels heavy as the woods suck him in, the ones she has come to love so much.  A wish is breathed into the mist, for his safety and protection.

                She is not sure she’d feel any better had their goodbyes been able to be openly expressed.

                She wanders into the washroom with a furrowed brow and her eyes solemn. As she slips into the tub, warm fragrant water surrounding her, she lets the melancholy settle. She leans against the porcelain, and instantly she is lost in thought. A hand slips under her shift until her fingers rest on the bloom. She circles it, wondering at the mark. She has left her own over his skin many times over, and took care to leave a few for him to have on his leave.

                She longs for the day where she can wear his freely.

                Maybe in this time, she will gain her courage. Maybe, in this time, he will gain his.

                Perhaps.

                Alas, she is willing to wait for it.


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

 

                She is practically vibrating, her whole body reacting in anticipation as she sits at her vanity. Her makeup is done, softly applied and accentuating her features. Her dressing gown covers her outfit, a pale blue dress as light as air. Teena and Constance are at her sides, fussing over the styling of her hair. It is in big loops, thick and spiraled, and the crown of her head is teased into a temporary bouffant to be fashioned appropriately around her tiara later.

                “You look beautiful, Highness,” Teena gushes. Teena is perhaps twelve, participating today as part of her begging to learn the trade from her sister. She is sweet and earnest, though she tends to bother the near-unflappable Constance from what she can tell.

                Emma smiles at the compliment. “Thank you.”

                “And the dress! You will be the talk of the party,” she continues, beaming.

                “Indeed she will be. It’s her highness’s birthday,” Constance says flatly, but smooths down a curl with care.

                Emma bites down at her lip, excitement buzzing through her. Her birthday.

                “There is to be an absolute feast! _Everyone_ shall attend. There is already a mountain of presents arrived. You should see all the finery! And I am sure you will dance with the handsomest of princes,” she sighs wistfully.

                “Hush, now. You need to get that side even,” Constance snaps.

                Emma blushes slightly and twists her fingers into the robe. A fair number of royal families are to attend, she knows, and she is sure to be expected to look to a few of the ones her age. Of course, her parents do not push suitors on her. Quite the opposite, in fact; they are content in keeping her as a youth instead of the adult she is for as long as possible. Nonetheless, she anticipates spending much of the party on her feet, twirled around from noble to prince to noble until she is dizzy with it.

                But that isn’t why she blushes. She blushes because a certain garrison is due to arrive at any moment, bringing with them a knight whose soul knows her own better than she.

                She cannot wait.

                It hasn’t been a long absence this time. A quick squash to a protest more than a rebellion. They even brought Jiminy to explain rather than use any force. But any time he is absent her heart twists and aches. It hasn’t rained in days, and she needs to know that they can sneak away a few more times before the storms begin in earnest.

                Teena’s brow furrows as she brushes a curl straight and redoes it to fit Constance’s standards. “It’s a good thing the garrison has arrived,” Teena muses. “The castle will have enough protection for all your guests and you.”

                She freezes and tries not to let her reaction show over her features. “The garrison … they’ve arrived?”

                Constance nods. “Just an hour ago, Highness. They were quite weary, but were a full three hours ahead of schedule. They are preparing for the party as well.”

                She trembles slightly, anticipation creeping up her spine. “Is that so,” she says softly.

                Constance pulls away first with a quick nod. “Your hair needs to set for another hour, Your Highness,” she determines, then pulls back the length of the strands so they aren’t in her way. “Do you wish me to fetch a book from the library?”

                “No,” she says and rises. She pulls off her robe, the twinkling of the filigree on her dress shinning in the daylight. “I need some air.”

                Constance opens her mouth to protest, but then snaps shut.

                Teena’s eyes grow wide. “But Highness! Your pretty dress!”

                She chuckles and steps out on tip toes. “I can wear a pinafore. Is that sufficient?”

                “Quite right. I will get you one and determine which of the guards are available to you,” Constance says quickly, tugging on Teena’s arm to drag her out as well.

                Once the door shut, she smiles to herself. An hour. It will have to be sufficient.

                Some minutes later, she returns unaccompanied and leads her downstairs. Constance fits her with a cotton apron, fitted over her skirt in such a way as not to sully it. Once she is prepared, she doesn’t hesitate to open the doors to the garden wide. She steps in bare feet out onto the palace steps, dry leaves crunching along her toes.

                In the distance, she sees him as he leans against a column.

                His back is turned to her, shining armor wrapped around his body. His hair is longer than usual, catching in the wind. When he turns, his eyes are soft on hers. He offers the barest hint of a smile. “Your Highness,” he greets with his usual informal bow.

                She can’t help but beam at him, smile wide across her face. “Sir,” she acknowledges, dipping lower than even he did.

                He steps forward. He must’ve only just had minimal time since his arrival, his face pink from a quick wash and beard only half groomed. He hesitates in front of her and looks down at her bare feet. “You were in a hurry, I think,” he murmurs.

                She nods. “I didn’t want to wait to see … the sun,” she teases.

                He ducks his head, smile hidden. “I will wait for you to find some shoes, then,” he says.

                She pulls her boots from the second step behind her and turns to him. “You’d assist your princess, wouldn’t you?”

                He gives her a sharp look but it doesn’t prevent him bending to strap the boots on. It also doesn’t prevent his lingering touch over her skin, careful enough not to alert anyone watching from the windows and yet provocative enough to make her shiver.

                “Let’s go,” she breathes once he is finished.

                He nods and then abruptly steps back, head inclined. She stiffens and turns, finding her mother at the top stair.

                Queen Snow is exquisite in a deep red dress, intricate detail in gold along her neck and waist. Her peppered hair is swept up and out of the way, though like Emma not finished for the event. She is grinning, pride brightening her whole being. “Emma,” she says, and places her hands to her mouth. “Oh, darling, you look lovely.”

                Emma presses her lips together. She is aching being so close, but she still manages to smile at her.

                Her mother steps down the stairs and hugs her close. “Happy Birthday, sweetheart.”

                “Thank you, mom,” she answers, hoping it isn’t as stiff as she feels. She feels the panic tweaking at her, wondering if she’ll be sent for some big birthday speech from her parents prior to finishing her look instead of the walk. His presence feels heavy at her back, and she desperately wants to at least touch him before the party.

                “Don’t be too long, now? And don’t make too _big_ of a job for the girls later, okay?” Snow insists instead.

                She gives her mother a real smile back, relief weakening her knees. “I am properly attired,” she says. “And my guard has helped with my boots so I won’t become muddied.”

                Snow turns her eyes to her companion then, and her smile becomes strangely distant. “Oh, good. Huntsman, I know you will watch her with a keen eye.”

                Emma just barely tosses him a knowing smile, and pulls out of her mother’s embrace. “I will see you later, then?”

                “Indeed. You should see the mountain of presents, Emma. Of course, your father and I’s is a bit more extravagant. I think you’ll be pleased!” Snow says with a wink.

                She is, of course. But as she bids her mother farewell and follows her knight into the woods, she already knows which present she enjoys the most.

                They reach the trees after a few paces. They do not have time to reach the true forest, so instead are in the secluded parts of the palace gardens. The wall and nearly all the castle is hidden at this vantage, and appears almost like the vastness of the place he grew up in. It is empty of people at a busy time such as this, quite luckily so. The creek rushes musically to a small pond with a school of koi swimming in its depths. She sighs and dips to rest her fingers in the water, watching the droplets sparkle in the autumn sun. She needs to touch something, her skin itching, and she isn’t quite sure if they have pushed themselves deep enough into the woods yet.

                “You _are_ lovely, Emma,” he muses, accent soft and lilting.

                She looks up. He is leaning against a tree, the light silhouetting him in its aura. She reaches out to him and he takes it, curling his fingers around her own. “I’ve missed you, my Graham,” she whispers. Are they far enough away?

                He shudders and pulls her standing, and his lips capture hers before she has a moment to worry. He is aggressive, pulling her close, consuming her, and she moans at the sheer force of it.

                Just as her lungs finally scream for air, he breaks the kiss. He hugs her close instead, burying his face into her neck and fingers sinking into her back. As always, he is able to express what he feels without ever saying a word.

                As he uses a thumb to caress her spine, she pulls back just slightly. She looks upon him gently, hands flitting over his cheeks. “Different, this time,” she murmurs, a question in her tone. If anything, she is usually the one guiding the first encounter, desperate for him after an absence. He usually is more tentative at first, letting it build and steady before taking over.

                He presses his forehead to hers and shakes a quick denial that anything is wrong. “Just gossip,” he says and pulls her closer by her waist.

                Oh. She’s heard some of the gossip even the men privy themselves to. Celebrations only strengthen this. Everyone has their opinion on who she should pair herself off with, and she has no doubt that the regiment would have no shame in how they vocalize their own.

                She captures his lips, slow and intense before parting. “You know me. You know you are my home,” she whispers to him.

                His blue eyes shine as he looks down at her, and he bumps their noses affectionately. “Eventually, you will need to choose,” he reminds softly, wrapping a curl around his finger.

                She pulls out of his arms and turns, hands brushing over her arms. She feels frustration climb inside her before she turns back. “I _have_ chosen,” she says stubbornly.

                “Emma.”

                She shakes her head and sits by the pond again. “I do not have to pick from these suitors. I could rule on my own,” she insists.

                “You could,” he offers and steps forward, fingers brushing the hair at the nape of her neck. “You are more than capable, Princess.”

                There is affection in the title, though the reminder of it makes her wince. “But they wouldn’t like it,” she says hollowly.

                “They wouldn’t like it,” he agrees.

                Her parents, with their true love and strong friendship, do not like the idea of their only child being alone. There are political reasons to her getting a partner as well, but they are more concerned with her finding someone to share her life with. Someone to lean upon when the crown feels heavy. They would not be content with her pretending to be alone for years, not truly.

                What she wants is to be able to tell them about him, about who her heart and soul already recognizes. But it is not ready, not time. Especially as he has already committed treason long ago with that first kiss, and it has only compounded from there. She needs to find a way to present him in a manner they will accept him easily, and she doesn’t know how that’ll be done just yet.

                She swipes her eye before the tear has a chance to crawl down her face and ruin her makeup. “Can we—not now, _please_ , Graham.”

                He sits next to her and cups her face in his hands. “I am sorry,” he whispers and kisses each cheek gently. “Not a worry for today.”

                She closes her eyes briefly, basking in the attention. “I need more time with you,” she commands.

                He smiles, eyes crinkling. “I cannot keep you to myself today, my Emma.”

                She finds herself smiling back again, the possessive word calming the unrest within her. “Too busy today, I know.”

                “But I am glad I was home in time to wish her Royal Highness a happy birthday, at the very least,” he says with a soft kiss.

                She sighs pleasantly as she pulls back. “It was a successful mission, then?”

                He nods; she sees the change in him almost imperceptibly. He is the advisor more than the lover in these moments. “They were only uninformed. A small village, one that was unaffected when she was in power. I only had a small group go with Jiminy to make a statement to them.”

                She puzzles through it a bit. “They weren’t followers to the Usurper?”

                He shakes his head. “No. They understood it to be that Regina’s rule was an improvement for their village than what they have now.”

                She frowned deeply. “Who is spreading the rumors that life was better with her, then?”

                His cheek twitches. “Isn’t there better things to discuss on this day of celebration?”

                She tilts her head to the side. “I think of nothing better than to figure out the best ways to rule as I become another year closer to that time.”

                Twenty-eight. That is their compromise. If her parents remain as well as they anticipate, she is expected to take a role in the day-to-day ruling when she turns twenty-eight. Something she’s fought for, tooth and nail, for the better part of the last seven years will now come to be not because they heard her but because people thought a coup was possible due to her ignorance.

                It hadn’t been her parents’ idea, unfortunately. Instead, it was the neighboring kingdom’s worries that sprung the idea. King Thomas’ lands are small, but they sit at a passage connecting their little seaside kingdom to the vaster lands of the Enchanted Forest. From there, they had the vantage of hearing the stirring of a plot, one that showed just how vulnerable Emma was in not knowing her coming role.

                Her studies have intensified, the background of diplomacy and politics for now. But in a mere three years she will actually be let into the real parts of the picture, shown a piece of that darker world she only sees through his lens at the moment. Will see her kingdom as it truly is, the good and the bad. It is a step, at least, to the days when she will rule on her own, when her parents retire some three decades from now.

                Even that first step seems distant at this time, years away still. She knows, however, how quick those will come since she both fears and anticipates it in equal measure.

                For it means she still has those three years to find a way for them as well.

                His chest falls heavily with a breath and his brow furrows. After a moment he forces a smile. “You are a better future ruler just for caring, you know.”

                She traces a path in the dirt with a lone finger and breathes out slowly. “I hope that will be true. For now, though, please: tell me why they think the Usurper is better suited.”

                He shrugs helplessly. “There was no information to be found from them. They were all too young to have lived through her reign, and it seems it was mere rumblings from other lands that gave them the pieces to believe it so. They think because she struck fear into the nuisances of today, the thieves and the beggars, that she had better control of the kingdom. They thought she was a true and unfairly maligned queen.”

                She brushes a hand over his heart, then up to the scar on his jaw underneath the scruff of his beard that she knows of but can’t see at this moment. “Does it ever anger you to see them talk about her like that?”

                He sighs and tangles their fingers. “It infuriates me,” he admits hoarsely. “Insanely so. That they believe there was more strength in her rule …..”

                She recoils and shivers. “Ruling through terror, more like.”

                “Yes,” he says, and he looks pained a moment.

                It takes her a moment to remember that the Usurper used _him_ to help in inciting that fear. She cups his jaw a little more fully, fingers splayed across his neck and cheek.

                He tremors, his cobalt eyes haunted. “They do not understand what it was like. And they don’t understand how things can truly be better. When you show them, Emma, they _will_ understand what strength a fair ruler has, what she can do to help us all.”

                She kisses him, hard, insisting. He coaxes her into a softer kiss, sweeter, and she lets him take control. “I’m sorry,” she says simply when they part.

                He shakes his head. “No, Emma. You need to know.”

                She hesitates and nods. She does, and she truly believes she does. But in asking, she can see the pain it digs in him to remember. It hurts that she cannot protect him from the past.

                “And, my love,” he continues, pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth. “I know how well you will rule when it comes time. You are outstanding, and I will watch with pride as they all come to see that in you as well.”

                She blushes. “I will be all the better with someone like you at my side,” she says boldly.

                “Emma,” he warns.

                She stares right back, stubborn. “You will let me keep trying. Especially today.”

                His lashes flick across his cheek and he surges forward, firmly pressing his forehead to hers. He says nothing, not to deny her or encourage her. She knows that for now it’s the most she can wish for. He doesn’t like to heighten her expectations, even if she wishes she could raise his.

                He wants this for them, she can tell, even if he doesn’t believe they will get it. She will take comfort in that, at least.

                “I wish we had more time,” she murmurs, and buries her face into his neck. The cold metal of his armor rests on her chin, and she sighs. She wants so badly to be skin to skin with him again, but she dares not attempt it now.

                He must feel her desire as he slips his fingers over her bare arms, carefully touching her and waking her every nerve. He touches her brow with his lips, a whisper of a kiss. “We’ll need to get you back soon.”

                She nods. Preparing for a walk and speaking with her mother has shortened the hour to mere moments. She knows she can’t be too selfish. She has gotten to touch him as she wished, gotten to feel his lips on hers again. She has guests arriving from all across the lands, all for her birthday, and they expect her presence.

                But it’s also her day to celebrate, and she wishes so much that she could celebrate with him.

                He leans in to kiss her one more time, taking the time to drink her in slowly. She feels ignited when they part, and she presses her lips together earnestly.

                “Tomorrow?” she asks hopefully.

                He nods, dark blue tracing the planes of her face. “Yes. I can help make that so. Just so long as you are not too tired from tonight, my princess.”

                She quirks a smile. “For you? Never too tired, Graham.”

                He adjusts her hair and smooths a thumb around the line of her lips, removing the smudge of her gloss. In seconds, she is sure she looks as if nothing transpired. He nods thoughtfully, and gives a half smile. “You are ready, then?”

                She smirks and reaches to brush her lipstick from him. “I suppose.”

                His face looks weary all of a sudden, dulled and disappointed. He stands and helps her rise as well. His mouth is a firm line until he nods sharply. “Tomorrow,” he repeats, mostly to himself.

                Heat warms inside her stomach, excitement replacing the disappointment.

                They are met at the palace steps by two of her lady’s maids. “Your Highness,” one of them says with a bow. “Constance has said that your hair should be ready, if you are finished.”

                She raises her chin and nods. “I am sure the guards will have much to prepare. Sir Knight, I won’t keep you any longer,” she dismisses, and can’t even bear to look at him.

                He disappears without a word, and she is led up the staircase to her rooms again. The whirlwind of preparing is quick, comparatively.

                As expected, her party is opulent. The receiving, dining, and ballrooms are decorated in silver and red, glimmering and striking. It contrasts and complements her pale blue and silver gown, especially as her family and many of the guests are in reds and blacks.

                She sticks out, as she is meant to.

                Her parents dote on her, the nobles flatter her, and she is, as predicted, led from one waltz to another over and over again. It is exhausting, and she longs to be out of the confines of the rooms.

                She finds herself laughing as she dances with her father though, his broad smile contagious.

                “You can’t be my little girl, could you?” he teases. She can practically count the rhythm of his steps, the _1-2-3_ , _1-2-3_ , in his own voice.

                She shakes her head, continuing the jest. “Must be someone else you’re thinking of.”

                “Hmm,” he ponders, and twirls her around. He looks her up and down, inventorying. “I do think there is _something_ familiar in there.”

                “Is that so?” she asks.

                He nods. “I vaguely remember a tiny thing with those same curls stepping all over my toes at one of these events.”

                She can’t help but laugh at the memory. “As I remember it, you _made me_ dance on your feet.”

                “Is that what it was?” he asks, eyes twinkling.

                “I’ve always been graceful,” she says and whirls to prove it.

                He raises one brow. “My dear, if there is anything you inherited from your mother and I, it was _not_ grace.”

                “Well, it _was_ twenty-two years ago. Perhaps you’re losing memory in your old age,” she teases back.

                His nose wrinkles and he dips her back. “Oh, fine. I suppose you are ours. That wit is all me.”

                She giggles and hugs him, letting him guide the steps.

                “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he says and kisses the top of her head.

                “Thank you, daddy,” she preens. She misses this kind of ease in their interactions, such comfort missing as of late.

                He steps back as the song ends and bows. He leaves with a wink, revealing another royal behind him at the ready. She fights not to lose her smile and readies for the next dance.

                She feels eyes on her as she spins, and looks behind her partner’s shoulder to find him on the edges of the party. He is half hidden behind the colored curtains. He is groomed more exactly than he’d been earlier, hair tamed and beard trimmed. He isn’t in armor anymore, either; meant to blend into the party, he is in a tailored black coat of rich fabric over a white silken shirt. His eyes are dark and soft and fond in the candlelight. His gaze is directly on her, wistful and perhaps a little envious, yet proud.

                Her confidence leaps just as her heart does. She is smoother in her movements, and her eyes close as she imagines him in the viscount’s place. She could almost wrap memories into her fantasy, a hand pressed lower than the one just below her shoulder blades, the one at her hand more intimately laced. She imagines being able to hold him close in the company of everyone around them and her eyes mist.

                She is sure to clap as the song ends, blinking rapidly as she watches the band. When they clear, she sweeps her gaze over the crowd. People have gotten into a fair state of inebriation already, she finds, even if it is only just dusk. Even her partner’s eyes are a little fogged, looking for a more eligible partner as soon as they are finished.

                She declines a next dance from the duke politely offering. The crowd is buzzing with laughter and conversation, everyone’s focus on each other and somehow not her. She is pleased, to say the least, when even as the guest of honor she is able to slip away onto the more secluded terraces without anyone following her.

                Anyone but him, at the very least.

                She never is unaccompanied as the heir, but she knows that if the rest of the regiment is aware that a captain is keeping close eye on the princess they will not be bothered by any more guards. And since the guests are busying themselves well, they should have a brief moment of peace.

                She sighs and leans onto the rail, not bothering to look back at him. She feels the warmth of his presence already. “It’s to be a long night,” she comments.

                She hears him shift against the pillar. “It’s still early, to be sure. Your guests seem happy,” he agrees.

                She turns her head, eyes raking across the striking look he has. He looks like he belongs: at the castle, at the party, at her side. Heat sparks in her stomach and she suddenly can’t wait for the next day. “Do they?” she asks, distracted. She pulls her skirts up and sits on the steps to the garden, spreading the length of the fabric out across the stone. “Sit with me a moment?”

                He hesitates but complies. “Not here,” he warns lowly, sure to push against the other rail in reminder.

                She nods and squints into the last of the light. “I just want to enjoy the view with someone I love for just a moment.”

                He opens the button on his coat, letting it fall open as he relaxes. His eyes close. “I’m glad I am able to enjoy this with you, then.”

                She leans her head against the railing and looks at him closer. “You appear exhausted,” she comments.

                He hums an agreement. “It was a long trip in this morning. I made them leave before dawn.”

                She considers that. “So you could be here?” she asks in a whisper.

                He smiles and cracks open his eyes to look at her. “It is her Highness’ birthday. She and her guests need the protection.”

                She grins and reaches forward to tug her hands through his curls. “I am glad to have the extra bodies for this detail.”

                He sinks into her touch and lowers his head onto her skirt. His dark hair is a pretty contrast to the pale color of her dress, and it is strange and lovely to see him such an intimate state of vulnerability. “I’m listening. I’ll let you know if someone comes,” he murmurs tiredly.

                “You won’t fall asleep?” she teases, brushing the strands away from his face.

                He shakes his head. “I cannot. Too much is at stake.”

                His tone is serious and she sighs at it. She’s not completely sure if he means their secret only, or also the potential dangers of a lavish party so soon after another protest. She knows they will only be able to spare a few moments, and that this will be the most at rest he will be at for hours. She looks back to the curtains blocking their view of the party and hopes that they remain undisturbed long enough for him to refresh. He works too hard, she thinks. “I know, my love. But relax for now. Please.”

                He blinks up at her and twists to stare. “I have time with you. This is enough.”

                She leans down and dares to kiss his face, softly patterning his skin. “I love you.”

                He threads his fingers in the loose curls around her face, his face in gentle repose. “Happy birthday, Emma.”

                She melts into his touch, soft and tender. Suddenly he stiffens and rises, pulling away to the other side. She swallows thickly and looks up, a few beats passing before Granny Lucas pushes through the curtains.

                The elderly woman looks between them a moment, and then her wrinkled eyes crinkle further. “Princess, they are bringing out the cake.”

                She nods, glancing to him a quick moment before rising. “Thank you, Granny.”

                “You don’t want to spend much time away, anyhow. People will begin to wonder about you,” she warns, and then disappears back into the party.

                She looks up at him from her place on the stairs, and can feel the disappointment stretching across her features. “Reality again,” she breathes.

                He frowns slightly, but reaches down to take her hand, smoothly picking her up to him. For a second, they are chest to chest before he distances himself. “You have a kingdom waiting to lavish you in the attention you deserve,” he reminds.

                “Not jealous?” she asks, thinking back to the kiss in the woods.

                His lashes flick down and his lips tweak up at the edges. “I know you will allow me to give you your attention tomorrow, Princess,” he says shyly.

                She beams at him a moment, heart swelling.

                He pushes her to the curtains. “Enjoy, Your Highness,” he whispers.

                His acceptance sets her at ease. It’s all she needs to be able to gather strength for the rest of the night’s spotlight.

                And enough to keep her hopes alight another day.

 


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

* * *

 

                As he passes from the narrow hall into the library, the scent of roses strikes him. It is light but noticeable, mingling with the smell of ageing paper and leather. Sunlight peeks from the windows in narrow slants, early morning barely dusting through. The door shuts firmly behind him, and he swallows thickly.

                He nods to the guard just by the entrance.  He doesn’t recall his name, but he is one of the newer recruits. He is also already well within the culture of the rest and doesn’t try to hide his distaste of his captain. The young man huffs and straightens before leaving the room, glad to be free from the duty but obviously irritated that he is the one relieving him.

                He can’t care less about any of these men.

                He adjusts his hood and walks further into the room, anticipation creeping within him. He winds through the stacks and towers of books, past picture windows and sofa enclaves, finally reaching the desks that line the research area.

                She is bowed over her studies, pen scrawling nosily against the paper and books scattered around her. Her blonde hair moves like water across her shoulder as she leans her head to the side, pausing in a thought before making another note. Her back is to him, but already his newly returned heart is beating furiously.

                He sees as something clicks in her, as her pen stops and her body freezes. She rolls her shoulders back, posture straightening. “You’re home.”

                His lips tweak up, a small smile. He’s never had a home before, but he doesn’t even question it. He is more than willing to make one here or wherever else she may go.

                She turns in her seat finally, green eyes bright as they met his. Slowly, she smiles, stretching wide over her lovely face. Her eyes sweep over him quickly. “I trust your travels were well, Sir Knight?”

                She is being careful in her wording and he shakes his head, denying the necessity of covertness. He reaches out a gloved hand instead. “My princess, my travels were too long.”

                She grins and takes his hand, helping herself out of the seat and into his arms. They hold each other carefully, staring at each other. Her hands reach up and hover over his face, the aura of her warmth so much softer than a touch. It makes him ache for the real thing, but he is too uncertain to press into it. “I have missed you,” she whispers.

                “I am glad to be missed,” he murmurs, and leans cautiously down to touch her nose with his. He takes a slow breath of her in. “And I cannot claim I didn’t feel your absence as well.”

                She pulls her lip between her teeth then ducks her head humbly. “Your first mission with this,” she says, and flattens a hand over his chest.

                He covers her hand and closes his eyes. He could always feel with her, heart or no. It seems like so much more now. He’s not sure if it’s because of the heart in his chest, letting him feel all the other emotions that can make his love so much brighter. Or perhaps it’s because she has said those words, easily, honestly. Or maybe it is because he knows what she will taste like if he bends just a little further. His eyes open, and he finally comments on her observation. “It doesn’t make much difference to the others, but I feel more in control.”

                She frowns briefly and he regrets saying anything for a moment. “I am glad you are in control,” she says finally, and another smile creeps on her face. She reaches up and tugs down his hood. “What will you do with it?”

                She is teasing, he can tell, and he follows the prodding to lean down to kiss her. Their lips caress gently, almost timidly. It is still so new. The initial bliss of feeling _everything_ had made their first kiss effortless. Now he has added anxiety, anticipating what this treason may bring, mixing in with the freshness of their relationship. It causes a flare of hesitation under the urgency. But at the touch of their lips, his heart still flutters.

                He loves her so entirely, consuming him. When their lips part, her eyes remain closed and a soft, pleasant sigh barely escapes her.

                He presses his forehead to hers and pulls her closer by the waist. “My choices are simple, Emma.”

                She chuckles warmly and wraps her arms around his shoulders, leaning up on tip toes to press into him. “You will be glad to know that mine are as well,” she replies, eyes shining.

                He can’t quite believe that she is here, that he can see the love in her expression and feel her essence deep within him. It is so fresh, so new, the glow so strong it is near palpable at every glance.

                 A choice, she implies. But it is not a choice she can truly make, not as heir. His heart quiets at that thought, though he dares not voice it to her. She is too lovely like this for him to shatter it.

                “You will want an update?” he asks instead.

                She nods but hold him tighter. “Later? I want to enjoy a moment longer.”

                He cannot deny her anything, so he pushes away the reality for a moment. He sweeps her hair from her face and bends to kiss her again, and finds with each time it gets a little easier.

                She brushes down his arms and carefully removes his thick black leather gloves. His head cocks to the side, wondering at the action. She presses her palm to his once he is free of them, and then interlocks their fingers. “I feel as if I’ve always known your touch,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

                He silently agrees, noting the rightness of her small, delicate hand in his. He has never known a touch so gentle as the one she gives him, nor one filled with such beautiful emotion as she grants. And yet it is as if they were always meant to have this, and his very soul recognizes it. If he believed himself deserving of it, he might believe they are meant to be. For now, he will simply be in awe of it until he must give her up.

                He cups the back of her neck with his other hand and uses a thumb to roll circles at the base of her skull. “Where is your tutor this morning?” He wants to know if their peace will be afforded to them a little longer.

                She hums and leans her cheek onto his chest. “He is in a meeting with my parents. He gave me a few books to read over, but I am adept enough in my studies to shape my own learning.”

                He looks over to the books she has laid around her papers. “Somehow I do not think Jiminy assigned you ‘Negotiations with Hostile Parties,’” he counters.

                She shakes her head. “Extracurricular. And I have had enough instruction in botany,” she says.

                He shakes his head and pulls her back to kiss her again, sweetly, to express his pride. Her thirst for knowledge to improve their world … she will make a wonderful ruler.

                Her eyes are glowing. “I love that you support me on this,” she says simply.

                He smiles and tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear, thumb caressing her cheek as he does so. “Your intentions are such that I would support you on anything.”

                She grins and then ducks her head before peering up at him shyly. “Anything?”

                He nods, sure of this. “Anything.”

                She surges up again, catching his mouth with more certainty. He matches her passion with his own, drinking her in. Something about the fire he can feel underneath it all excites and frightens him in equal time.

                He has never wanted like this before.

                Her breathing is hindered when she pulls back, hands now clutched tight at the collar of his shirt. She looks dazed and happy, and he feels a spark in his stomach as he realizes how much he wants to pull this look from her again and again. “Why did we wait so long?” she asks breathlessly and then giggles.

                He knows the answer here, but doesn’t speak it. The treason, his past, the contempt that falls on him, it all mixes into reasons why not. His expression must darken, as a frown replaces her easy smile. He forces himself into a shake, letting himself be in the moment once again. “We have each other for now,” he says instead.

                It must not be the words to use as she pushes back, not enough to leave the embrace but enough to give her space. She swallows and blinks slowly. Finally her face firms and she nods once. “We have each other for now,” she echoes.

                “It would be forever, if I had my say,” he reassures, not liking the idea that he has pulled some of her happiness away.

                She bites her lip, pulling it through her teeth. “I did worry for a moment,” she admits.

                His brow furrows. “That I would want to separate from you at any time? Never. I will gladly take all you wish to give for as long as we are afforded it.”

                She cocks her head to the side, studying him. “And if I believe that this feeling in us means that we are meant to be forever?”

                He smiles a little sadly. “The world does conspire against that,” he says quietly. Before she has a chance to protest, he takes her hand in his and presses it to the stiff linen over the heart she restored. “This, that you returned to me? It is forever yours, no matter what the world will do to me.”

                She sighs, and shrugs out of the brocade vest that covers her. In the simplicity of her cream dress, she slinks forward again and then takes their hands to her own heart, just over the silk of her bodice to the silk of her skin. She keeps it there a long moment before she turns her green eyes to meet his. “My heart cannot be removed like yours was, so I cannot show you how certain I am when I tell you this: it is yours, forever.”

                He is suddenly aware of how much like vows their words sound like. And he shouldn’t, but part of him believes and rejoices in hers. He bends to kiss her, so much more sweetly than before, memorizing her and sealing it.

                He knows it shouldn’t be possible, that he shouldn’t have such a strong and true connection with this princess, the heir. He cannot help how he loves her, how purely, how truly. He cannot deny how there is a piece of her imprinted inside him. They are connected in ways he never would have believed possible, that he never believed himself deserving of. He _wants_ this forever she speaks of so much he can taste it.

                How cruel it was to find such a true love with someone he knew it would be impossible to spend this forever with?

                Perhaps this inevitability is the price of his past.

                She nods once when they break away, pleased. “A way will be found.”

                “I wish I had your optimism,” he remarks wistfully.

                She frowns so quickly it almost doesn’t register. “You shall see. I will convince you of it,” she says instead of fighting it now.

                He chuckles and decides the arguing would be pointless. It is what he wants, after all. It just doesn’t seem possible. “There are talks of support for the Usurper,” he digresses.

                Her posture straightens and she tosses him a look before allowing the digression. “Again?” she sighs. “I thought I was getting somewhere when I found that small nest.”

                He squeezes her hands. “While I am forever glad you did, it isn’t enough for some of these louder citizens.”

                She shakes her head. “I finished returning the ones I found a week ago. And I know she stole so many more, but—“

                “The idea that some of the hearts have been returned but not all … well, there are those talking about it being some conspiracy,” he explains.

                Regina scattered hearts far and wide before she was deposed. For some reason, there were villagers that didn’t believe that she would do such a thing. They believed in the false tears that had run down her face when she was faced with ousting; they sympathized with that mass murderer.

                More and more he found that Snow and David’s choice in banishing but not executing her was a blight on their rule, as it showed weakness to some and hope to those that supported the Usurper.

                Holding a heart means controlling a slave, holding a person’s life in ones hands; giving this control back to a handful just isn’t enough. It had taken decades to find this first hiding spot of the witch’s, though, so there will not be an easy solution. And now some thought that their King and Queen were the ones that hid these remains for ominous reasons, ones that would be revealed when the time was right.

                Convincing these pockets of supporters of the opposite has proven difficult. Especially as he has no patience for them. Anyone who can put their faith in Regina is already beyond reason in his eye.

                “Is it just talk for now?”

                He hesitates as he thinks about what he’s seen, then nods. “For now. But there is an undercurrent to it all. There are those that don’t speak up but still agree, and that is perhaps more worrisome.”

                “And what do my parents say to that?” she asks.

                He shrugs. “They are concerned, but they do not act. They still thinking sending out groups to speak with the villagers is enough. I worry that things will escalate, but they do not believe it will happen.”

                “It is still just a few, right?” she asks, her brow furrowed in thought.

                He nods. “Just a few,” he agrees. “But even a few can be dangerous.”

                She peers up at him. “And dangerous for you as well,” she says.

                He hesitates, but nods honestly. “Yes. Because of what I was, and because of what I am now. But that doesn’t matter. I am protecting you by doing these tasks.” Since allowing himself to love her, he is even more certain that these missions are necessary. He will protect her with everything in him.

                She closes her eyes, looking slightly pained. “You will be careful, though. You _must_ ,” she insists.

                He twirls a curl around his finger and she leans in. “I will do no more than is necessary,” he says instead of the promise she desires.

                She presses her lips together but finally nods. “I suppose I could live with that compromise,” she states, and then wraps her arms around his waist to hold him close.

                He automatically pulls her in, embracing her fully.

                “Tell me the rest before Jiminy returns,” she demands gently. “What is happening, what they will do, what you would do.”

                “You should switch out your research as well,” he warns.

                She laughs lightly. “I prepared something in root teas already. I am adept at keeping a secret, my love.”

                 He warms at her choice in address, and he nuzzles into her. “Perhaps that will be to our benefit,” he adds.

                “Between us both, we should have enough skill to keep many, I think,” she agrees through a blush, and then leans up to press her lips feather-light to his.

                He can’t seem to stop the smile as he leans into the kiss, the flutter his heart takes off into even as he worries just how long they can keep this up.

                It doesn’t matter, he decides as she wraps around him. He could spend his lifetime trying.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked "I was just wondering why Emma and Graham feel they can't reveal their relationship knowing that they're True Love."

 

* * *

 

                The dining room is bright in the early morning sun, slanted light creeping in through the stained glass over the filled table. Her parents sit at the head with her just beside, a few others scattered on the far end. It had been a busy day previously, helping to send the regiment off fully supplied followed shortly by the neighboring royals. Now is the time to collect themselves before the winter silos are re-inventoried, before the day’s lessons begin.

                She is quite sure she will need this extra time before she can focus on the routines of her life again.

                She folds her hands on top of the table, staring down at her breakfast as her eyes glaze over. It is a quiet morning, allowing her mind to wander. It is a small assembly today, only her parents’ inner circle set at the huge wooden table. She and her parents are more closely seated at the head, the scattered others several seats down. Everyone seems pensive, lost in their own world. A hushed conversation or two will peak along the far side, but they are perfunctory at best.

                Her own thoughts are not centered on what is happening in front of her, for certain. Instead they are leagues away with the battalion.

                Out of the corner of her eye, she notices the tea being set for herself, her mother, and a few of the women of her parents’ council. Emma scoops the cup up and rests her teeth along the edge, trying not to let the worry build in her stomach.

                He’d left yesterday, with his promised goodbye.              Her mind is already flying with imagined scenarios, even if he won’t reach the rebellion for at least another fortnight. She supposes that she will be trapped in this anticipation until she sees him again, and has resigned herself to it.

                It isn’t new. This isn’t the first time. But this is shaping up to be the longest absence since he came to the castle two years ago.

                “This was the right way, wasn’t it?” she hears her mother ask under her breath.

                Her father reaches out, squeezing his Queen’s hand. “Our best are defending our people. I am certain they will be successful.”

                She smiles hesitantly. “What makes you so sure?”

                “We have a stream of luck. It has begun to snow,” he replies, eyes twinkling. Emma studies her mother as she tilts back her head to laugh.

                “Charming, that is as good as any omen,” she agrees.

                Her thoughts turn as she searches her mother’s gentle features. She loves her parents both so much. She cannot ask for better family. But ever since his words a week ago, she looks at them with a new eye.

                When their relationship grew, she became careful to rotate her guards. Her parents, especially her mother, have always been the worrying type when it comes to their only child. They have shown caution to who they allow in their inner circle, and are vocal and upfront about who they will approve of for her detail.

                For this reason, she always thought they trusted him _completely_. Her mother always had that look of relief when she’d wander off but be found with him at her side. It isn’t the same relief that she saw when she is found with the other knights. Even when she is found with Pino, whose family is so close to them, Snow still doesn’t have that same serenity on her pale features.

                The idea that there is something there that makes him _believe_ … it is new and disorienting. Graham had been so adamant, so sure. And it makes her question everything.

                She tries hard not to show much preference, and they quickly became attuned to keeping their distance around prying eyes. There is no doubt in her mind that her parents are ignorant of their relationship. Thus, what he sees cannot be for that. It must instead be for his past.

                She watches her mother now, and wonders if she looks long enough if she’ll see what he sees. Will she see the mistrust? Will she see the fear?

                She blushes slightly, knowing that her thoughts are silly. Without him here, there is no scale to measure how they react to him.

                In the beginning, she was at least marginally aware that their relationship wouldn’t be approved of. He is older, his past checkered, and her parents are far too protective to be anything but judging should it come out. She’d always believed … _hoped_ … that they’d see past that eventually. They knew true love, and she knows in her heart that this is what they have. How could they ever deny it?

                She shivers slightly at the idea of her own naivety.

                They need proof, is what they need. She needs something tangible to show the love so deeply imprinted in her. Her parents already believe her naïve and in need of sheltering; coming to them with no proof would only make them pitying and condescending. And that would just be to her. For him, she dares not guess what kind of punishment would lay.

                Her Graham isn’t just one with a checkered past, as she had once believed. He is one that people were actively afraid of during the Usurper’s rule. He had been forced to carry out the Usurper’s wishes, promoting the fear she had reveled in. He had killed people, she knows, and this isn’t a small thing for people to forget. People may know logically that it hadn’t been his choice, but emotionally people are not as forgiving. He was still the face people pictured completing the witch’s actions. And she has seen these people’s vitriol with her own eyes over these past two years.

                His work as knight is his slow process to help change that image, coming late enough in the narrative for people to be grudgingly accepting of his position. And yet they still look down upon him, challenge his authority and his nature at any chance.

                Emma is heir and only child to the King and Queen of their still-recovering kingdom. She is a symbol and an icon for their people, as much as she hates the notion. She knows some part of the sheltering and care her parents cover her in is to preserve that purity and innocence she represents. Any suitor has to be carefully introduced and integrated before he can be made her partner. There are laws to that end already.

                She wants to scoff at the law, at the mere idea of love being forbidden to anyone. Even if it had been a frivolous rendezvous with a boy her own age, it would have been _her_ choice to make. At least, it would have been had she been anyone else.  

                To announce anything too soon would be … damaging. With such a dark past contrasted to her pure image, she would seem corruptible. Any progress she has made in forming her own platform for rule would receded, perhaps irreversibly. They might think he took advantage of her, preyed on her good nature. And they might demand his punishment for merely touching her. 

                That they’ve already known each other as lovers? It isn’t just scandalous: it’s treason. 

                She feels her stomach churn and she pushes away her toast. She has been losing her appetite recently with all these emotions building in her. She wonders why she is suddenly worrying so much more than usual. She wonders if part of it is the gnawing impatience inside her, the want to emerge from stolen moments into a commitment for all to see.

                She wants him to be ready, though. Wants to prepare the people around her, too, but mostly she just wants to see any level of hope rather than wistfulness in his eyes. She needs to find a push for him, for them, and then they can reveal to her parents what is known in her heart.

                “It’s our best that have gone, Charming.”

                She looks up, turning her attention back onto her mother’s hushed and worried voice.

                Snow looks concerned, her wide green eyes set on her father’s face. “Do you believe he trained the others well enough if there is something that happens closer?” her mother asks softly.

                She presses her lips together, stifling the ire at the mention of the newer recruits. The younger ones are those that undermine his authority more plainly. They are often hotheaded and think themselves superior, being from families of noble background. The elders may be more insidious to him, but the youths often tend to be less restrained. And she _knows_ the raven haired man with the permanent scowl is the reason for Graham’s bruised knuckles and cut forehead in the past week.

                Her father glances up from his papers, giving her mother a soft look. “Snow, we are well protected. They are going after the real threat, but we are not exposed.”

                The Queen gives a strained smile, reaching over to grip his hand. They share a look, one filled with words unsaid. It makes something in her ache to recognize the gesture, not just from a lifetime of watching them, but from two years of loving someone who understands her just as well as these two do. “The weather will slow them,” she murmurs. “Perhaps it is for the best.”

                Stormy weather indeed means a natural protection to their castle. He taught her about their defenses, and the cold and snow will make anyone that tries to move on the area much more visible. But the weather also means he will be gone longer.

                She searches that part inside her that is entwined with him, feeling his safety deep in her bones.

                She sighs to herself and takes a small sip of the tea. Immediately, her face puckers; she finds it bitter again. Pity, she thought she was getting used to the medicinal taste of the root. She has been taking the teas for the last decade to help her with her cycles, and they’ve been an added benefit since she acted on her feelings for her huntsman. She sets it down and pushes it away. There is no worry to drink it down quickly for the next months.

                Her mother puzzles at her then takes a sip of her own drink. She shivers. “Oh. Are we all out of the asant teas?” Snow asks around her own cup to the girl serving them.

                Penny bows slightly, her eyes shaded. “Yes, Your Majesty. We used the last of it yesterday, and the next shipment won’t come for a few months at least.”

                Snow frowns, disappointed. “Oh, what a shame. It was such a nice change. Is it a bad harvest?”

                Emma’s brow furrows in confusion, and she interrupts Penny’s answer. “This is the lasar tea, is it not?”

                Penny’s eyes widen worriedly and she nods. “Yes, Highness.”

                Snow sighs. “Yes, we are back to this. I am sorry, sweetheart. I had hoped we would be able to use the asant for longer.”

                Emma sets the teacup down, studying the amber liquid with a frown. “I’ve been taking lasar teas since I was fifteen,” she says, and then raises her eye to her mother’s. “You switched it?”

                She laughs musically. “Oh, Emma, don’t look so worried! Your cycles have still been lighter, yes? It is its intended use,” she says with a smile.

                She frowns. Yes, she hasn’t noticed a change. However, the idea that her mother switched something medicinal that she takes daily … well, it’s disconcerting. “Why did you change it?”

                Snow takes a small sip from her cup. “Lasar is much stronger and very bitter since it has more uses, ones you needn’t worry about. I had thought I told you about all this?”

                “No, you hadn’t.” More uses? Her brow furrows. “What’s the difference between them, then?” she asks.

                Her mother shrugs, and then glances to her father who is distracted looking through the inventory lists. “The asant is milder, of course. They grow in smaller patches, which allows them to be better tasting. It was found late this fall, for the first time in ages. I made sure we both got it instead.”

                “Oh,” Emma says simply. She shakes her head slightly and laughs under her breath, wondering at why she had gotten so worked up. Better tasting, of course. Her mother and she share a sweet tooth, so it only makes sense that the Queen would seek out something more agreeable. They taste about the same, but there is certainly something more pungent even in the smell of the lasar, she decides. It’s no wonder she didn’t notice. She takes a bite of her toast around a smile, and looks up. “Is that all?”

                Snow smiles back. “I could have sworn I told you all this. I am so sorry, Emma.” She takes a scone from the platter.

                “No, it makes sense that you wouldn’t be too worried in mentioning it, If that’s the only change,” Emma replies.

                “It helps regulate just as the lasar teas do,” she agrees with a nod, then laughs a little. “In fact, I think they are basically the same plant! It’s just that the asant doesn’t prevent pregnancy. Not that we need to worry about that.”

                Her spoon clatters against the plate. “What?” She can practically feel her face drain of color.

                Confusion twists her mother’s features. She hesitates a moment before replying. “It doesn’t prevent pregnancy,” she repeats, then blinks. “And that’s not something you need to be concerned with … right?”

                Her stomach knots in itself, threatening to upend. Her muscles jelly as her mind zeros on to the new possibility. … Since late fall? The rains prevented their meetings for some time, but once the snow began they made up for it threefold. She stares at her tea until her vision blurs.

                “Emma?”

                She barely hears her. She is too busy trying to remind herself that it’s not _certain_. Her mind quietly argues that, reminding her of every encounter, of every turn of her stomach and episode of lightheadedness in the last weeks. Since late fall ….

                “Emma?”

                She glances up, but she can’t really see her mother through the haze of this shock. “I—excuse me.”

                Her father half stands, his face pinched in concern. “Emma, are you all right?”

                “Fine,” she chokes out. “Just – fine.”

                She feels rickety, grasping her chair to steady herself. She can feel eyes on her as she turns, people rising to acknowledge her exit as they always do. But it feels like judgement. It feels like they _know_.

                She makes it all the way down the hall with her head high. When the door closes behind her, though, she absolutely collapses. She buries her face in her hands and shrinks into herself, letting out a sharp yet muffled sob.

                She jumps when she feels a hand on her shoulder. When she looks up, Granny Lucas’ face is twisted in sympathy. “Come, Princess.”

                She wordlessly agrees, standing on shaking legs. Granny hobbles with her cane and holds half her weight on her shoulder to lead her to her bedroom. Once there, she guides her to sit on the bed.

                Emma doesn’t feel … real. It feels like a dream, a nightmare, one of her cooked up imaginings that is both beautiful and terrifying all in one. And yet she can’t bring the words together in her mind, not at all.

                Granny is watching her closely, and finally sighs. “You know?” she asks.

                Emma raises her gaze, her stomach twisting and her chin wobbling. “Know?” she finally chokes out.

                The old woman always has that no-nonsense look about her, but it is even greater at this point. But as she watches, her face softens as she takes pity on her.

                She doesn’t like this. She doesn’t like what the old woman with wolf senses is implying just in expression.

                Granny reaches out to pet back her hair from her face. “I told him to keep you out of trouble,” she sighs.

                Emma swallows back a whimper. She remembers the odd look on the older woman’s face, the sternness directed at her love. She remembers the weighty warning, how strange it had felt. And now its double meaning sinks into the spaces of her brain that do not want to process what is happening.

                She can’t be. She _can’t_ be.

                “He should know better,” Granny grumbles out, and tsks. “You two are more like dumb teenagers when you’re together. You are certainly lucky that I was the only one that caught on.”

                “You … you’ve known?” she asks, and then turns cold. “Have you told anyone?”

                Granny scoffs. “I’ve known a good long time now. But it is you’re business, and I don’t care about gossip. Too old for that.”

                She breathes a quick sigh of relief, and but still finds herself shaking. “How?”

                 Granny shakes her head and fusses over her a bit, brushing her hair back from her face and back behind her tiara. “I’ve been around a long time, and I have good senses. And these past few weeks you two have been so obvious I’m surprised no one else caught on.”

                She blushes slightly. She thinks of the times she snuck back into the passageway after long nights, the stolen kisses, the time she snuck him into her rooms. They haven’t exactly been restrained. And now, the tea …. She turns her eyes up to her and swallows. “The lasar?”

                She gives a look over the wire rim of her glasses. “The teas aren’t foolproof, even the stronger one. Honestly, it is a miracle it’s taken this long for it to happen.”

                Her tongue feels heavy, numbness tingling through her extremities and swallowing her in coldness. “Then … I am?” she asks, still not managing the words, and yet she feels woozy with the question.

                Granny hesitates before she steels. “Princess, you’ve been carrying that new life inside you since you walked back from the woods that day five weeks ago.”

                Granny’s face blurs in front of her before black tinges her vision. Cold takes over. She’s not exactly sure what happens next.

                All she knows is that it is later, and she is blinking up at her father. He is standing by her window box, figure silhouetted in the dusk.

                “Daddy?” she calls.

                He bows his head, and it is a long moment before he turns to her. His eyes are glassy, but he offers a small smile.

                She takes a breath in, wondering what’s happening before she recognizes the silk sheets and furs covering her pale yellow gown. She frowns at the fabric and the fact that she is in bed. Her brain feels looped with cotton. “What time is it?”

                “It’s nearly sundown,” he replies, his voice thick. “You’ve been out for some time.”

                Her brows knit in confusion before it all slams back. _That new life_. She sits up and flattens a hand over her abdomen, hoping for a moment that she dreamt it all. Her throat tightens, and she doesn’t even try to fumble for an explanation.

                Her father sits at her bed. His brow is wrinkled and his face is pale; he looks as if he has aged another decade since she saw him at the dining table. After a moment, he leans to brush a hand through her hair. “Do you need some water?”

                She shakes her head. She doesn’t think she could manage anything right now, even though her mouth is dry.

                He nods once and his face grows grim. “It isn’t hard to guess why you left at breakfast,” he says hesitantly.

                Tears sting, and she looks away sharply. All her doubts are mixing, exponentially increasing with this new information. If she is … if it’s _real_ … her fears from this morning are worsening.

                He leans back, out of her space to give her room. He’s always been good about that, knowing when she needs his support versus needing distance. “I’ll need to hear it from you,” he says softly.

                She shudders out a breath. The dizziness is returning. She can’t say the words, can she? “I might –I might be with child,” she finally utters.

                His head hangs in disappointment before he nods gently. “Granny seems certain of it. Her senses are attuned to these changes, so I trust her,” he says. He reaches a hand to her shoulder. “But we didn’t even know you’d found someone.”

                She gulps, and brings a fist to her mouth to prevent a sob. She struggles against it in earnest before she nods compulsively.

                “Emma,” he says cautiously. “You … it was your choice, wasn’t it?”

                She pops her head up, eyes flashing and heat itching through her a moment. The instinct to snap back is sharp; visions of her knowledge of Graham’s past are high in her mind at her father’s implication. She lets herself temper when she recognizes the expression on his face, so concerned. She slowly lets her ire stifle, remembering that such a question would only make sense to her parents. “Yes,” she says with direct eye contact, trying to convey her seriousness.

                “Okay,” he says softly, coaxingly. “Is there a reason you haven’t told us you found someone?”

                She turns her head away sharply. Carefully, she pieces through her worries, finding nothing to remedy them. She cannot lie, but she cannot tell them. Not without his side to knit her fears into a sail to guide her. “Yes. Yes, there is a reason.”

                David blows out an audible breath. “Will you tell me now?”

                It slices through her again. “No.”

                “Emma,” he tries, then sighs. He switches tactics. “Are you in love?”

                This should be a simple question, with a simple answer. She knows she loves him, that he loves her. But it feels strange to say it in front of her father after hiding it from him so long. “Truly,” she says hoarsely.

                He smiles sadly. “Of course you are,” he says to himself with a shake of his head. The worry whispers through her again. Does he believe her? It is hard to tell. “Do you want the child?” he asks next.

                Her lips tweak into a frown as she considers it. In another world, one where she loves him freely and openly, then absolutely and without question does she want their child. Even now the want is within her, niggling within her heart. The idea of a tiny being that they created together in love … she’s had dreams of such things. So, despite her fear, she does. But another part is so _afraid_. “I’m scared,” she says honestly.

                He hesitates. “Do you want to talk it out?”

                She shudders. Her hand presses harder against her stomach, tears swelling. “I love him. But we aren’t supposed to fit,” she says, and her breath hitches and stutters through her emotion. “We wouldn’t make sense, not to you two. But I love him so much, and I want to be able to love our baby so much. But I’m … I’m _terrified_ ,” she admits.

                David scoops her close, unwilling to let them be separate at this moment. He strokes her hair, and oh, she feels so like a child. She sobs achingly, curling her hands into his shirt and pressing her face into his shoulder. He shushes her under his breath, rocking them back and forth.

                Her heart is not helped by the action, and instead when she finally runs out of tears, her head aches in anguish.

                He pulls back, brushing her hair back from stained cheeks. “Emma, we love you. Nothing will change that.”

                She ducks her head. She knows. But that isn’t her fear.

                “I cannot promise anything about this man; how he’ll react, how we will feel about him. But your mother and I … Emma, we will always be here,” he says softly.

                She closes her eyes, feeling more tears escape to track down her face. “But it’s treason,” she whispers. They have both avoided saying that thus far.

                His mouth forms a firm line, and he says nothing for a long moment. “And that will be have to be considered and passed down,” he says finally.

                A chill shudders through her.

                “But this is a miracle, Emma, and we will treat it as such,” he finishes.

                She turns scratchy eyes to him. “You will … you will accept the child?” she asks hoarsely.

                His mouth parts, eyes widening. “Emma, _of course_. No matter what, this will be our _grandchild_ , your baby, Emma. That is our family, Emma.”

                She swipes her cheeks and then cups her stomach. _My baby_. She considers for the first time that, despite everything, her baby—his— _their baby_ —will be loved by her parents. A flicker of hope ignites in her, warming her. “And Granny … she’s certain? It’s real?” she asks in a low whisper.

                He brushes back her hair, a small smile. “She is certain. But we can have Blue check as well, if you are concerned.”

                She weighs that in her mind. Blue is a close friend, but one that she never felt as comfortable around. Magic is still unpredictable for her, and she wonders if the fairy would be able to pull secrets from her as she determines if she is carrying life.

                 Five weeks ago, Granny said. The first snows. She twists her hands, considering the dizziness and nausea that has struck her in the last couple weeks, things she brushed aside as the emotion of him leaving. She thinks about her own magic, the swell that has gotten stronger even if she is ignorant in how to wield it. “I believe she only made me recognize what I am feeling,” she says slowly, the truth of it heavy on her. “But perhaps we can have someone be sure everything is okay.”

                He takes her hand and nods. “We want to be sure you are healthy through this, of course.”

                “That the child is healthy, too,” she murmurs.

                “Of course,” he replies. His face strains, and he looks away. “There are other dangers, too.”

                The Usurper’s followers. Then, suddenly, a small piece of memory comes slamming into her: the prophecy leveled decades ago by the damn imp. When they find that Snow White’s progeny is growing, they will not be particularly quiet. “I know.”

                He furrows his brow, perplexed a moment. She isn’t supposed to know, she remembers, but this secret is one she is too exhausted to care about being revealed. He says nothing to it, anyway. There is a timid knock on the door, and her father rises. “She needed a moment before she could come in,” he explains.

                She feels a strong wave of irritation, and her face heats.

                She can tell he notices, and gives her a pointed look. “Your mother is in straits. She thinks it is all her fault,” he notes.

                She sucks in a breath, and nods. “She should have told me,” she says flatly.

                He nods solemnly. “Yes. And you should have told us.” Then he opens the chamber door.

                Her mother looks ashen, a feat for someone named after snow. She offers a strained smile to them both, forehead creased, before she cautiously enters the room. Her eyes well with tears before she offers, “I am so sorry, Emma.”

                She ducks her head. “Granny thinks it was bound to happen,” she numbly replies instead of the accusation she half wants to hurl. Emma doesn’t miss the shared look between her parents. She pushes back the sheets and stands instead, lifting her chin until her false confidence becomes real.

                Snow moves around the posts of the bedframe and sits in front of her. Her mouth opens and closes a few times before she reaches out, grasping her hand. “Are you happy, Emma?”

                It feels a loaded question. She considers how to answer a moment, before finally settling. “With him, yes.”

                Her mother forces another smile, and she brushes back a loose strand of salt and peppered hair back into the weave of her crown. “I am glad for that,” she says. Emma worries that it is not fully the truth.

                She feels her father flank her, and she looks up to see him reach for her mother’s hand. He slides his arm around her shoulder next, linking all three. Emma feels her steel resolve crack, and she releases the straightness of her spine a bit.

                “And are you happy with the news?”

                It occurs to Emma that her mother can’t say the words just yet, just as it took time for her father and herself. She swallows. “I am worried. How could I not be?” she begins, then brushes against her stomach once more.

                She glances to the mirror at the corner, seeing how the loose dress she chose for indoors skims her figure in a way that allows her to picture the future swell. She conjures an image of him in her mind and imagines a boy with his curls and a girl with his eyes. She finally finds it in herself to truly smile, the realization that it will be true. This is reality.

                She meets her mother’s matching eyes in the mirror and finds the strength within herself. “I have dreamed of our child before,” she admits in a rough whisper, something she hasn’t admitted to even him. She wasn’t supposed to wish for this. She turns her gaze back to her mother. “I can’t regret having it come true.”

                “Oh, baby,” she says, and grabs her close. Emma rests her head on her shoulder, letting herself be comforted and knows it is more for the Queen than for herself now. Snow brushes through her hair soothingly as she hugs her, a low hum murmured over her head before the words tumble out. “Emma … my Emma. I am so sorry.”

                “I’m not,” she mumbles into her shoulder, and finally realizes the truth in it. All the waiting that led to those presses against the boundaries of secrecy … she is perhaps grateful for this push. She was not expecting it, had never dared to stop her daily regimen. But she cannot be sorry for the baby inside her.

                She feels the moment that her worry transforms, becomes hope. That’s what their child is.

                Hope.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

* * *

 

 

                He watches from the distance as she rides across the meadow, bow pulled taut as she aims to a target on the far side. The sun is high and the field is a yellowed green, bright and open. It had been a chilled morning, misty and grey, but now the sky is a bright azure and the heat is climbing.

                 He adjusts the chainmail draped across his shoulders. After some consideration, he yanks it off and places it by the nearest tree, along with his gloves and tunic. He feels more himself in the light linen shirt, even if his underclothes for the cold of the early fall morning are too thick.

                The young wolf in the canopy of the forest opens his eyes to watch him remove these layers, but does not move his head from its place on the earth. He instead continues to laze in the heat, snorting softly before yawning. The wolf’s ease further bolsters his assumption that they chose a spot far enough away from people.

                He leans his back against the tree and carefully fiddles with his own bow anyway, at the ready just in case. He has his pistol and a knife at his hip, always prepared. He will take this part of the assignment seriously: he will keep her safe from any harm.

                After a long moment, the dark furred wolf pads up to him and then rolls over, pushing against his foot. He chuckles at the sight, a tightness across his chest. He realizes how much he missed this: the open world, the companionship, the _feeling_. His choice in returning to the palace near a year ago had consequence and danger, of course, but he will always be glad he did. His heart is bolstered to a place he never could have imagined, even more than what he had as a child.

                Love does that, he supposes. It has painted his world in a color he never had the capacity to see before her.

                He pets his wolf on the scruff gently and offers a dried bit of meat from his pack, and the animal takes it happily.

                A thundering of hooves approaches and he glances up in time to see his princess approaching atop her horse. He lets a small smile filter across his face.

                She is lovely. Her blonde hair is unbound, floating behind her like a wave of gold. Her long, gauzy skirt is tangled along her legs and streaming behind her. A loose cotton shirt is fitted on top to protect her smooth skin from the thick leather bands that hold her quiver and bow. Her smile is stretched wide as she turns her face to the sunlight, and she moves evenly with the beast as they come closer.

                “You seem excited,” he comments.

                She grins broadly at the horse trots to a stop, and then leans to hug the creature’s neck. “I feel so safe out here,” she says warmly. “So peaceful.”

                “Peaceful is not the word I’d choose for your expression, Your Highness,” he teases.

                She smiles with a slight cock of her head. “Free, then. I feel free and safe and it all seems so _easy_.”

                He feels the same echo in his heart. He stands to pet the horse’s nose, marveling at the animal’s ease with both him and the predator idling in the shade. He squints up at her. “You are progressing,” he states simply.

                She looks hopeful, then timidly ducks her head. “I hit five of my targets while on horseback. I could be better.”

                “You are used to stationary. It is not an easy feat, but you are quite good at adapting, Emma.”

                She grins. “Indeed I am learning to be. Now, help me down. It is too hot, and I feel a break is earned.”

                He perhaps lingers a moment longer in assisting her as she descends. He is now so used to the spark at their touch, but at the same time it ignites him in a way he thought he’d never feel. Times like these he can’t help but revel in it.

                She grins at him and edges her chin up to nuzzle into him. “I love that look in your eye.”

                He cocks his head to the side. “What look is that?”

                She hums as she considers, turning back to the horse and tying him to the tree. She wipes her hands over the shirt. “Happiness?” she says, though it is a question.

                He smiles at her gently. “Never doubt that I am happy in your presence, my princess.”

                She flushes as she grins, eyes bright. “Good. It would be unfair for me to be the only one happy when we are together,” she says.

                He tugs her close and kisses her chastely.

                She hums, then yanks his sword from his belt. “You should see my form with this. I am most comfortable with the blade in hand,” she says, and swishes it to cut through the air with clean, broad strokes.

                He watches her in keen interest, the skill that belies what little training her parents allowed for the swordplay. They much prefer her have some distance between an attacker and herself, thus the weight of firearm and bow over what comes most naturally for her. She is lovely in her forms, though, in the pride and confidence she has with it. “You outperform me, for certain,” he notes. Swords are not often used in hunting, and he found little care for learning when he was younger. “Perhaps you can help me with this.”

                She hands it back and dabs at her forehead. “Later, perhaps. It is too hot for all these layers,” she says with a pout, then leans down to unlace her thick boots. In bare feet, she tip toes across the grass to the wolf by the trees. “Hello there, friend,” she greets simply as she sits beside him, shrugging out of the sling of arrows and the protective top. Her corset is covered in intricate violet embroidery, contrasting the white of the background and the pale pink of her dress.

                “If you wish, we can go back to the camp to get some cold water,” he suggests. He has set up the tent and most of their supplies by the river’s edge.

                She considers a moment. “Yes, that sounds nice.” She looks at the wolf with a small smile. “You will watch our things?”

                The wolf huffs lazily and then whines before rolling to expose his belly, tongue lolling out. He can’t help the width of his smile as he listens to her giggle. “You have a way with him.”

                She looks up slyly. “He knows I love his alpha,” she declares and holds up a hand for assistance.

                He lifts her up and brings her close into his space. “I think more he knows that his alpha loves you,” he whispers against her lips.

                She leans in but then abruptly pulls back, tugging him in the direction of the river with a coy smile.

                He nearly growls, good-humoredly, possessively, and darts after her. She is light on her feet, dashing through richly dark grass speckled through with fragrant flowers. She looks like a nymph whenever the sunlight peeks through the canopy of trees, catching her golden head snapping back to check his pace just behind her. His pace is measured, slowed but with an air of chase still. He cannot help loving this spirited side of her just as much as the serious.

                When she slows at the edge of the river, her skin is rosy pink and her hair is tangled. She turns quickly, grabs his hands, and yanks him as she falls into the tall grass, spreading her arms and legs to take in the sun. When he mirrors her, she grins and rolls to him, cuddling into his side and tangling their legs. “Perfect,” she sighs pleasantly.

                “I should agree,” he answers, feeling the same sort of bright excitement he can see in her. He plucks a bit of lavender and rolls to hover over her, touching the petals to her skin, down the line of her jaw and the across the apple of her cheek, before he weaves it into her hair. His heart flutters as their eyes catch, and he smiles gently down at her.

                She takes her hand up, softly brushing her fingers through the curls behind his ear. He relishes the small pleasure and nudges his head into the crook of her neck. She inhales deeply and cranes her face up toward the sun as she keeps him in a loose hold. “These are the days to be cherished,” she murmurs.

                He turns his face up, and locks their hands together over his heart. “We will only have these chances a few more days until the weather truly turns.”

                She nods. “The rains will begin in earnest soon.”

                He examines the sky. “The rains will begin today,” he argues.

                She frowns and studies the clouds gathering at the edge of the hill. “It is too lovely a day for rain. Too warm for it to be bad.”

                “Trust the man that grew up in these woods,” he chuckles out.

                She rolls her eyes playfully and kisses his cheek, lashes flitting as she smiles. She then rises, stretching her hands wide over her head. She pats out to the riverbank, sinking her toes into the mud. She leans down and rests her wrists in the water.

                “You will be a mess when I need to return you to your lady’s maids,” he jokingly admonishes.

                She nods and grabs the locks of her hair at the nape of her neck. “I said I may swim. They should expect it.”

                “You have a plan, my princess, for everything it seems.” He joins her at the bank and dips to fill his waterskin before offering it out. He smiles at her when she takes it.

                She takes a sip and peers at him over the edge of the container, her eyes sparkling in something like mischief but a touch more mysterious. “I always do.”

                A sudden rush of heat gathers within him, and he turns quickly to look over the land, rubbing the back of his neck as he does so. He changes the subject quickly. “We are near the place I learned to read and write.”

                “Indeed?” she asks, intrigued. She bends upward, eyes scanning the field as she takes another drink.

                He nods and points to the remains of a house’s foundation. “Just there. The old man used to have me practice near his hearth, first about weapons, then about history.”

                She hooks her arm in his and searches the rubble from afar. “He was a good man,” she deems.

                He nods and looks down at her as she rests her head on his shoulder. He has told her of Fionn times before, and she always seems so appreciative of the man long since passed on. “Just there—the barn still stands. At least, a good lot of it.”

                She turns and takes in the dilapidated building. “Not much left now,” she murmurs.

                “More than I’d expect,” he argues.

                “He did well by you,” she says, rubbing his arm. “He and the wolves made you the man you are now, and I should forever be grateful for them.”

                He squeezes her hand at the crook of his elbow and glances down at her. “These pleasant memories are not the only things that formed me,” he reminds.

                “I know,” she replies, but relaxes against him. “But those other things I cannot claim to be grateful for.”

                He sighs, but chooses to shrug off the unpleasantness. He tucks a strand of hair over her ear instead. “I love your hair unbound like this.”

                She tilts her head. “A mess?” she asks, amused.

                He grins and considers. “Perhaps, yes,” he decides. “It feels … intimate. Personal.”

                She turns, kisses his bicep. She nudges her nose into him and then looks up through lashes. “I love yours this length. A little unruly, curls easily mussed.” She tilts her chin higher. “You are right. It feels intimate. Especially as this, with layers shed against the heat. Like we are the only ones that can see each other like this. Imperfect and no pretense. How I imagine it _might_ ….”

                He feels the depth of her words, the implication. He cups her face, tracing her cheekbone gently. “I could look at you like this forever,” he whispers, a wish more than a hope.

                She surges up, connecting their lips languidly. Her arms cross around his neck so their bodies collide, and her kiss takes a new shape. He drinks her in, the taste of sunshine on her. The smell of her skin seems warm and green, and she feels like everything he loves wrapped into one person. The kiss is different, hungrier, as she opens her mouth, tangling her tongue with his.

                It is a testament to her distraction that he doesn’t realize the change in weather until the bead of rain catches onto his shoulder, followed quickly by several others. He breaks the kiss and turns to the sky. “Ah, it _has_ arrived.”

                She looks dazed and happy, her finger tracing her lips.

                He grabs her hand and tugs. “The tent.”

                She nods quickly. She follows him to the set up across the bank, closer to the ruins of Fionn’s home, as the rains come harder. By the time she slips inside, her hair is plastered to her face, dress a little muddy and very wet. “That came very quickly,” she comments as she wrings her hair out.

                “I told you it may,” he reminds, raking a hand through his own hair.

                She giggles and wraps her arms around his shoulders again. She pulls him down, connecting their foreheads before sealing their lips. She hums. “It is not so bad, as I said it wouldn’t be. It’s a warm rain. Quite pleasant, in fact. We could play in it, like children.”

                “And I have been told to keep you safe. I believe keeping you from illness is included,” he replies with a quirked brow.

                She frowns but then tugs at her stays. “I suppose staying in all these layers only serve to chill me rather than its intended use as such,” she mutters.

                He nods and looks her over. “You _are_ soaked. Emma, the furs. And your lady’s maid sent you with another dress.” He believes the pack Constance provided has a change of clothing in the event her lady did choose to swim. “I will let you dry and get changed. I’ll go to the barn to do the same.” He is aware that he has no extra clothing and that running to the barely standing covering won’t do much to help his current state, but he cannot intrude on her like this either.

                She looks like she wants to protest at first, but finally nods. “Okay. You will need to loosen the ties, first.”

                She turns and pulls her hair forward, leaving the bindings of her corset visible. He hesitates, then traces the laces as if they were violin strings. He unknots the tie at the bottom and then pulls to loosen its grip. She holds her arms to her chest, not letting the stays fall, but it still seems inappropriate.

                “I must leave you,” he says, his tongue suddenly heavy.

                She grips his arm as he turns to leave. “You are sure?”

                He turns back to her, taking in her wet and vulnerable form. He takes a breath and nods. “I will be fine, Emma.”

                She presses her lips together and then leans up to kiss him, teeth scraping gently across his lip. It calls to _something_ in his blood, and he finds himself questioning every bit of reasoning. “It should be quick, yes?” she asks, her voice in a low pitch.

                He nods and brushes the hair from her face delicately. “These storms never last. And as you said, it is still quite warm.” He hovers over her, eyes flicking over her face and wanting nothing more than to stay in her presence. Finally he takes her hands and pulls them from his shoulders. “Think about what you wish to do when it is over, and I will gladly abide.”

                She tilts her head and considers him, hands tight in his. Something in her expression makes him pause until she presses her lips together and releases him, letting him go. “That I should hold you to,” she murmurs.

                He turns once more, and plainly on her face is an unnamed expression. He feels a second of anticipation before he remembers himself and steps outside.

                When he reaches the barn, it is in worse shape than he expected. Beams are exposed, cement caving from the center. The ceiling drips, barely creating any shelter from the weather. He removes his belt, gun and dagger clattering to the straw covered ground. He strips his shirt and trousers, leaving him in his underclothes. He decides to wait for reprieve, let the worst of the water drip from his clothing before donning them again, without the underclothing. It will separate him from her for a longer time, and that is something that makes him ache, but it is the best he can manage. He leans his sword on the wall and sighs.

                Perhaps he did not fully plan this outing out well enough.

                The rains have begun to patter instead of roar, and he knows it will only take a moment for them to cease completely. He unbuttons the length of the long underwear from collar to navel, and shakes his head to clear some of the wetness. They should have some privacy, at least. The wolves’ den is a mere stone’s throw away, and they will alert to any activity other than their own.

                He reaches a hand outside the building. _Like children_ , she said. Her eyes and her tone say something else entirely, though now he can recall what it was like as a child. He remembers how he used to enjoy this sort of warm rainfall that comes in autumn. His brothers would coax him out at times such as these, the weather a minor insulation from predator and prey alike so they might have a chance to play.

                He shakes his head slowly, wondering at his ability to remember with such fondness. It was only mere months ago he thought himself incapable of this ever again. He rubs the area over his heart and lets himself appreciate what he has received.

                He doesn’t linger in the memory, however. Movement catches the corner of his vision, and he turns his head back towards the opening of the tent.

                Emma is just outside the shelter on a spread-out sheet in only her underdress. Stays and layers are gone, just the thin material covering her. The skirt is kicked up around her thighs, exposing an expanse of creamy skin. Wildflowers shadow across her, calling a pattern that makes his eye creep upward. Her head is dipped back, eyes closed as she relishes in the soft rainfall. Her dress is like second skin in the damp, almost sheer, only serving to outline her body.

                He swallows thickly, and his body warms and reacts. He cannot look away, though the learned propriety is screaming at him to do so. Her lips are red, and while she doesn’t glance his way he can tell in her expression that she knows he is watching. He wants to cross to her, wants to pluck her from her spot and press her close.

                Some part of him is curious at his own response. He has come across beautiful people all his life; he doesn’t remember ever feeling _this_ way. He had been forced to react sexually; has it ever happened on his own will?

                If he has had this feeling sometime in his life, he cannot recall. And if he has, it pales to what he feels now.

                She opens her eyes and levels them on him with a small, knowing smile on her face. She looks hazy in the mist now, the rain following an unpredictable pattern. He watches as her eyes trace his body like his did hers, and she finally stands at her place on the blanket. Waits.

                After a long moment, he dumbly emerges from the shade of the barn, into the field. It almost feels like a dream when he meets the edge of the blanket, as he is enraptured in her stare.

                He has loved her for months now, but there has always been an undercurrent of innocence to it, the weight of the treason preventing it from transforming. But innocence is nowhere to be found at present, no reason for it to be seen in her eyes.

                She plants her feet once he stands toe to toe with her. She reaches forward, hands sure but eyes hesitant, before carefully settling at his shoulders. She turns those big eyes up to him, face so close he can feel the soft puffs of breath against his lips and he wants so much to taste her. He has kissed her many times before. He knows exactly how their lips can collide. He hasn’t been timid in kissing her since the very beginning, but this feels _so_ different than any time before. He isn’t sure enough of himself to bridge the distance with her white underdress pressed so clingingly against her skin.

                Her gaze falls down the open neck of his underclothes, slow and definite. She makes fists of her hands against his collar, then tugs downward. He shudders as the wet cloth peels from his upper body, easily disconnecting before it bunches at his waist. Goosebumps spread across his skin and his breathing hitches and comes quicker. He watches her as she pauses and then grips the gathered fabric.

                Her eyes flick up to his once more. He can see the nerves in her soft sea-colored eyes, the question. He does not know if he has an answer to give, still so blown away by the alien feel of lust coursing through his veins.

                She presses her lips together and then pulls, kneeling before him as she divests him of the clothing. He can’t help how he trembles at the sight, a violent tremor of need. She stands and walks backwards a couple paces, the weight of her gaze on him.

                He swallows thickly, frozen. He hasn’t been naked in front of anyone since _her_ , and he gulps back the memories that threaten at the back of his mind. Emma’s quiet taking in of him is certainly enough to drown those thoughts. Her pupils are dark, wide across her irises, chest heaving once before evening into a steady pattern. Her skin flushes, but she only maps him rather than focuses. He watches as she lingers over muscle and scars, as she cocks her head to the side to better see the raised line that crosses from rib to back. She reaches forward, but her hand only hovers over his skin, warm aura tracing his body.

                She does not linger on any one part, but instead takes him all in, slowly, methodically. She keeps catching his eye, watching his reaction, seeking permissions before moving on. He watches that love and lust collide in her expression and fear is the last thing he responds with. She does not say a word through it all.

                He can’t help himself when she makes her way back over tracked territory, pressing against her hand so she is actually touching the corded muscle at his hip. Her eyes snap to him, and she gives a beautiful smile before using her nimble fingers to explore his stomach and up his chest, gliding through the drops of rain to paint over his skin.

                He closes his eyes, getting used to the feel of her touch, letting her discover at her own pace. After a long moment, she takes a breath before she skims further down, feather-light across the hardening part of him. He leans forward, touching her forehead with his own as she takes her time to familiarize herself with him.

                “Look at me,” she demands in a whisper.

                He parts his lashes, nose to nose with her. She is searching for something in his eyes and finally her expression lightens as she finds what she is looking for. She removes her hands and he almost whimpers at the loss before he finds them in his. She laces and unlaces their fingers, palm warm against his own. Finally, she leads him to the straps of her gown.

                He takes a step back, takes a deep breath in. The dress is soaked through, only a few folds and creases keeping her modesty. She is all nerves despite her boldness, body shaking almost imperceptibly.

                “Emma,” he says softly.

                She looks up, scanning his face again. She nods once, firmly.

                He loops his fingers under the straps but watches her for the right moment. After a beat, he traces her skin as he pulls the gauzy material down. It pools at her feet, leaving her bare to him. Her head dips back and there is no further trace of shyness or uncertainty. Rainwater sluices across her collarbone and his eyes follow the path down over the rest of her smooth skin. He traces her form with his eyes like she did his, memorizing every curve, every dip, every freckle.

                She is breathtaking in every way he can think of and several he cannot.

                In a mirror of before, she takes his hands to encourage him to touch her, and he almost engulfs her waist in a steady grip. His thumbs swirl over her ribs, watching her body react even in the small ways. After a moment, he leaves the purchase of her hips and explores more readily. She lets him take his time, though he can tell certain touches test her patience. Her eyes roll back and a soft sound escapes her; it is all he can do not to take her right then.

                It is so unfamiliar. He didn’t think he would be capable of this kind of wanting, and now he cannot stop himself from coaxing the sound from her again.

                “Please?” she utters, mouth parted and eyelids half closed.

                He leans down, tasting the rainwater on her shoulder, fire licking his veins as he fights against the nature that wants to mark her. He presses against the arch of her back, pushing until there is no space between them. He nudges her chin once, twice before finally taking her lips hungrily, urging her closer all the while.

                 The rain passes while they come together, and he is still amazed after.

                She has tucked herself into his side, breathing deep and rapid as she calms. Her leg is still thrown over his hip and he is shaking in disbelief. He lets out a laugh that sounds strange to his own ears, still so surprised.

                There is no fear. No bad feelings, no anger, no shame, no regret. None of those emotions that used to come all those years ago. Treason wasn’t the only reason he had kept things innocent for them, after all. Now that it is moot, he can’t feel anything but _happiness_.

                She is tracing his collarbone with delicate fingers, the action absent and thoughtful. She turns her face to him, her brow wrinkled faintly. “Everything is … was … all right?” she ask timidly.

                He can’t fight against the smile that crosses his face. “I don’t know that I should be allowed to experience anything as perfect as you. I love you, Emma.”

                She bites her lip, blush staining her cheeks prettily. “Indeed?”

                He cups her face and rolls over her, watching her face all the while. She barely winces and he freezes, smile slipping off his face. Stupid. He is being stupid. “Are you okay?”

                She shakes her head. “I am fine, my love. This was just an experience new to my body.”

                “I should be more careful,” he murmurs, wondering at how he could forget, even in a moment, how this affects her.

                “I think you should be more bold,” she disagrees, and wraps her arms around his neck. “We could have started months ago and this feeling would be long passed.”

                He chuckles at her teasing, then returns to seriousness. “You are not concerned? In pain?”

                She shakes her head. “I have been dreaming of this for a while, now. It is more than I could have imagined,” she says. She plays with the curls at the nape of his neck, eyes alight. “And perhaps a bit sore, but I think … do you feel it?”

                He waits a moment, and does perhaps feel something humming within her. “Your magic?” he guesses, trying not to show any of his latent fear of it.

                She nods. “I think it is helping, though I do not know how to direct it.”

                He swallows. “You should not attempt to do so.”

                She hesitates and her fingers tighten in his hair. “I will not,” she decides. “I have never had luck to try, anyway.”

                He lets out a low breath, relaxing in a way he didn’t know he needed to. “Then I did hurt you,” he deduces, and pulls back.

                She tightens her grip. “You did not _hurt_ me. You made love to me for the first time,” she argues. She smiles slyly. “And you let yourself go with me. Any touch of soreness is worth that.”

                He searches her for the truth of it and finally brushes her nose with his. “You are sure of that?”

                She tilts her chin and presses her lips to his, smiling all the while. “If it means I get to experience that pleasure again, I will gladly take on the mild irritation of sore muscles after.”

                He growls and kisses her deeply, emboldened by the fact that she found enjoyment as well. She laughs throatily, and pulls back to scatter kisses all across his face.

                She is grinning, and places his face between her palms. “You are even more handsome to me now, I think,” she comments.

                “Emma,” he whispers, catching her lips languidly. He shakes from the force of loving her, the devotion. “You are stunning in every aspect.”

                She hums, delight in her eyes. “I think … I think it is time we found a name for you,” she says cautiously, then lightly scratches across his shoulders. “Why must you get to be so informal and I cannot?”

                “I will take whatever name you wish to grant me, my love,” he agrees easily. He has never had any want for names, but if she would choose one for him it would be no nuisance.

                She nervously plays chords across his shoulders, before looking up at him. “Perhaps … Graham?”

                He cocks his head to the side. “You have that at the ready,” he comments.

                She gives a sheepish smile. “I found it long ago, and found it suits you well. For me, at least. If you would agree?”

                He smiles. “My princess, I have told you I would agree to anything. But let me ask: what makes this your choice?”

                She carefully pieces through his hair, separating strands and tucking them back, the motion soothing. She stares into his eyes, the blue-green of them eager and joyous, just as he likes. “It means ‘home.’ You, my huntsman. My home.”

                He shouldn’t agree. He shouldn’t play into the fantasy that they have a future. He should remind her that they just committed treason and that he cannot be her true home. But he will be her shelter, her protection, her safe place. He can be that for her and, more than that, he wants to be that for her. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Graham it is, for you.”

                She sighs happily. “If only you were always so agreeable.”

                “I can be agreeable,” he counters. He places a kiss between her breasts and then flicks his eyes to hers. “Let me show you.”

                She nods readily and opens her arms to him again.

                He can show her what he wants, even if it is just for now.

**Author's Note:**

> "Graham" technically means "gravelly homestead," but A&E were looking to name the sheriff in a way that alludes to Holmes (Graham was originally to be Sherlock). Thus, in this AU, "Graham" simply means "home."


End file.
